


walk through these flames till i don't feel their touch

by bravestyles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, americanisms even though it takes place in london sorry, minor descriptions of the murder of a minor, side Ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:34:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 38,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23164816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravestyles/pseuds/bravestyles
Summary: Harry and Louis' five-year-old daughter was murdered, and neither of them know how to move on.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 32
Kudos: 122





	1. walk through these flames till i don't feel their touch

**Author's Note:**

> title: twenty twelve - matt maeson
> 
> this is a pretty sad fic but there's happy ending + happy epilogue so yay for that
> 
> hope you enjoy :)

It's a miracle they're even still together. 

After her death, everyone close to them thought they’d last six months, tops. It wasn’t hard to believe, considering after the case ended and all the loose-ends were tied, Harry went back to Holmes Chapel for three and a half months while Louis stayed at their home in London.

If he were being completely honest, he didn’t have any intentions of coming back to London, to that house. There had been almost no thought of leaving Louis, but the idea of coming to London again, to face reality, made him feel that hurt all over again. Anne was willing to let him stay however he wanted; she held him while he cried, and she made him breakfast in the mornings, and she listened to him ramble on and on about how it wasn’t fair and how disoriented he felt. 

Louis visited him every other weekend, although, at the time, it felt like there was really no point. Neither of them really said anything; nothing that mattered, anyway. Harry could barely think properly, let alone try and figure out how to comfort his husband. The most he could muster when Louis came was holding his hand or putting his head in Louis’ lap. It probably wasn’t enough, and Harry feels guilty for allowing Louis to mourn alone like that, but he doesn’t regret it. He would’ve shattered if he had to stay in that house. He’s just thankful Louis went out of his way to visit Harry, because if he hadn’t, surely they wouldn’t have lasted very long.

Halfway into the fourth month, Harry came back home, and it was the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. Everything felt so  _ wrong. _ Louis warned him not to go into Isabella’s room, that it just made everything feel so much worse, and Harry listened to him. He trusted Louis’ opinion, so he didn’t go into their daughter’s room for about two months, and then one morning he couldn’t shake the stinging fear that Louis didn’t want him in there because he had done something to it, that he had thrown away some of her things or straightened her drawers, and he needed to see for himself that nothing was tampered with. If anything, anything, in that room had been altered in some way, there was no telling what he would do.

Harry practically ran into her room, and as soon as he entered, it hit him like a ton of bricks. Everything was the same; they had been running late that morning and didn’t have time to make the bed, and the pillows and blankets are still in shambles. She had trouble picking out what jacket she wanted to wear to school, made a proper fuss about it in typical five-year-old fashion, and there’s still the four options laying on the floor. She told her dads to vote on them, and the one she ended up wearing -- a little red coat with pink detailing -- was the first thing that they found after she went missing. 

He called Louis, who was at work, in absolute shambles. He couldn't fucking  _ breathe _ . He wanted nothing more than to throw himself in her bed and hide away under her comforts, to see if her strawberry-shampoo scent would still be clinging to the pillows, but he was too scared to mess anything up so he just laid on the carpet and cried and cried and cried.  _ Come home,  _ he pleaded.  _ I need you. _

And Louis came home, of course he did. Harry remembers how shocked he was at how fast Louis got home, and he had half a mind to scold him for undoubtedly speeding because he can't lose him, too, but he kept his thoughts quiet and allowed Louis to scoop him up in his arms and hold him as tight as the day they found out she was missing, and the day after when they found out she was dead. 

It happened like this: Harry took her to school. He was a teacher at her school, just a grade above hers, but he didn’t go to school that day because his students were going on a field trip with another teacher and he didn’t want to go. So, he dropped her off, smiled at her  _ bye Daddy, love you, have a good day, _ and watched her go inside. And then three hours later, he got a call saying that someone signed her out of school that wasn’t Louis or Harry, and then everything came to a screeching halt.

\- 

Everyone’s shocked when they exceed their predicted six-month expiration date, so they move it to a year. They give Harry and Louis six more months to split, and maybe they should have split. Taken a break, at the very least. 

They slipp into a habit of co-existing. Harry feels the distance starting to grow between themselves, and he’s been terrified of it, but out of the fear of being called needy or broken or being blamed, he doesn’t say anything and watches it slowly happen. 

Louis goes to work at the hospital at eight, and comes back home around seven. He goes upstairs to their room while Harry stays downstairs. Harry hasn’t gone back to work yet, so he spends most of his time in the living room. About a half hour later, they make their plates and eat dinner together on the couch. Silently. Staring at whatever show Harry had been watching before Louis came home, not saying a word to one another. What is there to say? Izzy’s dead, and there’s nothing that could possibly be important enough to say in a world that she’s not in. And then Louis goes and showers, and Harry longs to join in but never does. After he gets out, he takes Clifford and Bruce out for a walk, and goes to bed when he returns. 

The entire time Louis goes about his routine, Harry sits on the couch, fumbling with his fingers, trying to gain the courage to interrupt him. To ask Louis how his day was, to come up behind him as he’s making his plate and holding him, to offer to wash his hair for him, to do  _ anything  _ other than watch his husband slowly disappear from him. He’s too scared of being rejected though. Harry feels so, so fragile, and Louis snapping at him or just calmly telling him no would be enough for him to crumble entirely, Harry’s sure of it. 

The nights are the worst.

Harry usually convinces himself to wait at least a half hour before crawling into bed with Louis. If he joins Louis sooner than that, Harry’s scared Louis’ going to be too awake and will reject his silent plea for a cuddle. He’s got it in his head that the only reason Louis wants to hold him at night is because he’s too tired to put up a fight about it. So, Harry sits downstairs and fights the urge to join his husband for as long as he can, and then he quickly gets ready for bed and quietly gets settled under the covers. Louis' rarely asleep by that time, and he always rolls over and cuddles up with him before murmuring a quiet  _ love you, _ and this rare moment of intimacy is what Harry clings to and uses as motivation to get through the next day. 

It goes on like that for a while with barely any changes. Sometimes, someone joins them for dinner and they have to eat at the table and try to make conversation. Sometimes, Harry gets so miserable that he completely breaks down into either a fit of hysteria or anger, and both are so exhausting to Louis. He tries not to show it, but it’s obvious. They argue sometimes, and occasionally, they find it in themselves to have sex. It's always so different from how it used to be, though; just two people going through the motions because they need it rather than being madly in love and wanting it so bad they could cry with it, and it leaves both of them feeling worse. They don't cuddle on those nights.

The worst part of it all is that Harry wants to fix it, and he doesn’t know how to. 

When Harry goes back to work in September, ten months after their daughter's death, their relationship gets even worse.  _ Harry _ gets worse, really, is what it gets broken down to. Louis' still the same distant, stoic person, and Harry changes for the worse because he's a fucking first grade teacher and the entire time he's at work all he can think is that his daughter is supposed to be this age, his daughter would be friends with Stevie and Paige, his daughter would be in his class, his daughter's fucking  _ dead _ .

It drains the last bit of fight he has left in him. Every single day, without fail, he comes home and absolutely  _ loses _ it. He cries and cries, becomes a pile of nothing wherever he falls that day. And by the time Louis comes home, he's slightly more put together, though still a mess, and Louis becomes tired of it quickly. Every night, he has to put Harry back together, only to have to do it all over the following day.

As they approach closer and closer to the fifth of November, the day she went missing almost a year ago, bigger and bigger chunks of Harry start to fall off. He finds himself not being able to sleep at night, not eating as much, having to excuse himself at work to go cry in the teacher's bathroom. Louis becomes incredibly worried, constantly checking in with him at work, and Harry always bitterly wonders if he's expecting Harry to randomly disappear while he's at school, too.

It’s just -- it’s unfair, isn’t it? Of course it is. If the front desk lady had just checked Izzy’s emergency cards and asked for his I.D. like they’re supposed to, Jackson Shaw wouldn’t have been able to take her and murder her in his car in the parking lot. If Jackson Shaw wouldn’t have been a goddamn psychopath that they accidentally moved into the same neighborhood as, Izzy would still be here. And if Izzy -- and no, he’s not blaming her, she was fucking _ five _ \-- but if she had looked at him, that _ stranger _ , and said,  _ I don’t know him, _ she wouldn’t have been released to him. But she didn’t know any better, and she probably just trusted that one of her dads had everything under control. She trusted the situation, because Harry and Louis had never let her down before. And then they let her down in the worst way possible.

If it had to happen though, if it absolutely needed to happen for a reason he can’t understand, he just wants to know why it had to be so goddamn brutal. She didn’t die quickly or painlessly. She didn’t get that. Those words on her police report stick themselves to the back of his eyelids like wallpaper:  _ kidnapped. Murdered. Bludgeoned to death. Crowbar.  _

A week before it becomes a year, Louis finally snaps. Harry's been expecting it for some time now. 

Harry’s at work like normally, sitting behind his desk and numbly staring at the pictures one of his students drew him for Halloween, when Jake randomly asks him if he has any kids, and it knocks the breath out of him. It’s the first time he’s been asked that after Isabella’s death, and he doesn’t know what to say. Because yes, he still has a daughter. No matter how long she’s gone, Izzy will always be Harry’s little girl, but. . . technically, no, he doesn’t. Not anymore.

Harry doesn’t even think about answering him, just grabs the phone off his desk and rings the office to arrange a substitute for him for the rest of the day.

At noon, like always, Louis texts him, _ everything ok? x _ . Every day, at noon and at three o’clock, Louis checks-in with him. Has to. It’s only a matter of time before Harry falls apart on him. And Harry makes the conscious, selfish decision to lie to him and text back,  _ Yeah. All good. _ He plans on telling Louis the truth tonight, to talk to Louis about this for once, but he doesn’t want to worry him right now. Louis will be irritated that Harry lied to him --  _ “I don’t care what you do, just be honest with me about it” _ was Louis’ motto for both Harry and Izzy -- but Harry thinks he’ll be able to reason with him, and everything will go fine. 

Except Harry accidentally falls asleep when he gets home, and Louis worries anyway. The door slams shut, jolting Harry awake from his spot on the couch, and the dogs start barking. Panicking, Harry glances at the clock on the wall. It’s only two. Louis shouldn’t be home for another five hours, and holy fucking shit, is a stranger in their house? 

He scrambles to his feet, panic battering his chest, and he looks to the front door to see Louis a few feet away from the front door, looking beyond angry. 

Louis storms over to him, ripping his coat off and throwing it on the couch as he does, and Harry takes a step back, uneasy from the intensity of Louis’ face. He’s still in his soft baby blue scrubs, but he doesn’t look as harmless as he usually does in them. The anger just barely reaches the surface, though. Harry can see the panic inside of Louis’ eyes. 

"I thought you were fucking  _ dead _ ," Louis snaps, chest heaving. His voice sounds completely shattered, and now Harry knows for certain that he's been crying. "I got a call from your co-worker telling me that she 'might be over-stepping a boundary', but she thinks that someone needs to check in on you'. Why the fuck didn't you tell me you left early, and why the hell haven't you been answering your fucking phone?"

A part of Harry wants to tell him to calm down, although he shushes that irritation quickly because Louis has every right to be this wound up. For Louis, it's too close to how things played out with Izzy, and if Louis' been calling him, worried, Harry made everything a hundred times worse by not answering his phone.

"I was having a bad day," Harry tries to reason calmly. All it does is raise the fire in Louis' eyes. 

_ " _ So when you told me you were okay, you were lying?"

The venom in his voice makes Harry take another step back. Ignoring his question in fear of making it worse, Harry clings to the calm route and tries to explain. "Jake asked me if I had any kids, and I -- "

"I don't care what happened," Louis shouts, face red. He juts an accusing finger out at Harry. "You be honest with me,  _ always _ , and  _ especially  _ now." Louis takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, his hands coming in fists at the side of his face. "God, Harry," he grits out. 

"I'm sorry."

Louis' hands fall back to his sides, his eyes opening up slowly. He doesn't look any less angry. "If you would've just shot over a text that you went home, I would've been fine with it. I would've been worried, yes, but at least I'd fucking know where you were for sure."

Harry doesn't say anything, thinking another apology will only make things worse. He fully expects Louis to drop it at that, to stomp upstairs and not bring it up again, to lose his anger because he has trouble keeping that flame alive nowadays. 

Louis sighs again, shaky and short. He looks like he wants to say something, although before he can, his nose wrinkles and his face scrunches. He's going to cry, and Harry almost wishes he wouldn't. It's hard seeing him like that, especially because Louis tries to hide it from him now. But Louis' held him while he cried almost every night these last three months, so he sucks up his cowardliness and reaches for him. 

Louis steps forward, closing the gap between them, and Harry pulls him the rest of the way so they can hug. He wraps his arms around Louis' middle, tucks his nose into Louis' neck, and Louis clings onto him like he's still afraid he's going to lose him. 

After a minute, Louis rests his head on Harry's shoulder. His fingers are still clinging onto Harry's shirt, though they've loosened their grip slightly. Enough for Harry to know he's calming down, if only a little. "The one time I didn't -- " Louis stops himself, his voice too tight to continue. He tries again a few seconds later. "The one time in her entire life I didn't know where she was, I never saw her again."

_ Alive _ , Harry's brain supplies. They never saw her  _ alive _ again. Because they saw her cold, pale body when they had to confirm it was her after she had been found.

Harry remembers trying to remember everything about his daughter, from the way her nose curved at the top to the way a cluster of freckles took home on her cheeks, but also wanting to never remember her that way. She was dead, and she looked it, too. She didn't look peaceful or asleep, she looked like a corpse. It was too hard to pretend it any other way, especially since there were a few bloodied, blonde hairs peeking out for where the doctor tried to cover the evidence of the blunt-force head trauma. 

"I just didn't want to disappoint you by leaving," Harry says quietly, purposefully avoiding the topic of Isabella. "I was going to tell you tonight, anyway. If I had known someone was going to call you, I would've told you myself." He squeezes Louis' waist. "Who called you, anyway?"

Louis pulls away enough so they're looking at each other, but they're both still holding one another. He looks a bit guilty. "Ms. Campbell called me. I asked her to. She's nice, and her classroom's next to yours, so I told her to keep an eye on you for me."

"Lou." Harry frowns. This whole thing started because Louis was mad at him for lying, and now Harry's finding out he's gone behind his back to ask a coworker to babysit him. 

"Don't act like you haven't asked Zayn to do the same for me," he points out, and well, Harry can't argue with that, even if maybe it's a little different because Zayn's a close friend to both of them. He just nods and pulls Louis back in close. 

The next week, too scared to face his students on the first anniversary of her disappearance, he calls in sick to work. And the next day, the first anniversary of the day her body was found, he calls in sick, too. So does Louis, both days, and the only difference is that Louis goes back to work the following day and Harry just keeps calling in sick until he gets a call from the school board. 

They're nice about it. The kind woman he's speaking with -- Mrs. Lynn, the superintendent -- tells him that if all he needs is a few more days, she'll understand and allow it without discipline. She feels the need to tell him that she has a daughter of her own, and if she were to lose her, she doesn't know what she'd do. Liam told him the same about his and Zayn's little boy Nathan, and Niall about his nephew. Each time, Harry has to bite his tongue to try and keep himself from spitting, _ Do you think that helps me in the slightest? My daughter's still dead.  _

Mrs. Lynn is gentle when she offers him an indefinite leave of absence. He'd technically be still employed, but he wouldn't be getting paid. He'd get to keep his benefits, though, and it sounds so, so tempting. He tells her he'll think about it, and by the time she hangs up after apologizing to him for his loss, he's already decided.

Louis' not mad when Harry tells him that he's done working, that he can't do it anymore. He's not surprised, either. 

-

They make it to a year, and then all of the sudden it's been two years without her, and Harry doesn't feel any better. Visiting her grade with Louis is always painful as it always is. Louis breaks down in the middle of the cemetery this year, which is a jarring contrast from last year, when he cried silently. Harry holds him as tight as he can, pouring every bit of love into him that Izzy would be giving him if she was still here. And Harry keeps shushing him, not for the sake of others visiting a loved one, but out of an irrational fear that their daughter can hear him cry. 

“This is too fucking hard,” Louis cries, his fingers clawing at Harry’s arm. His face is tear-streaked and scrunched in pain, and Harry hates it so, so much. “I miss her. I’m so sick of missing her. She deserves to fucking be here, Harry, I shouldn’t have to miss her. She was only  _ five. _ ”

And Harry shushes him again, turns him away from her grave. "Just try and talk to her, Lou. Tell her how her daddy's been. If she's listening, she's going to want to hear at least a few of your jokes." Louis must get the implied  _ and she's definitely not going to want to listen to you cry,  _ because he pulls himself together and shuffles towards her grave. He keeps Harry close by, and at the same time, they reach forward to trace the letters on her gravestone.

_ Isabella Grace Tomlinson,  _ it reads, and Louis' fingers shake the worst on their last name. 

"Tell her how the dogs are," Harry encourages, and Louis tucks himself deeper into Harry's arms. 

Instead of listening to Harry, Louis glances up at him and says, "I don't know how you do this every week." 

It hurts, the wonder in Louis' voice. He's not implying it's any easier for Harry, just that Louis couldn't do it every Sunday morning like he does, and maybe that's the same thing. Harry doesn't let it bother him. Visiting her every weekend makes him feel closer to her and less like he's trying to forget her. He used to visit her only on special occasions, like Louis still does, and somewhere along the line, he needed more than that. He doesn't blame Louis for not being able to do it all the time like he does. If anything, Harry likes spending time with her alone. 

Sometimes, Harry will stop by on Sunday like usual, and there are flowers or another stuffed teddy bear sitting on top of her grave. He doesn’t know who keeps doing it, if it’s a stranger or a friend or Louis. He’s thankful for it, regardless of who it is. He just hopes that they don’t get offended that he doesn’t bring the teddy bears home; he takes the flowers, but he leaves the bears there. They’re always gone by the following week, and some sick, desperate part of Harry wants to believe that it’s Izzy taking them with her, back to wherever she is right now. 

"It helps me," Harry says. There's a strand of hair hanging over Louis' eye, and Harry pushes it away gently. "Talking to her like she's still here helps me."

Louis glances back at the grave. He's quiet for a moment, and Harry squeezes his hand tightly. It was hard for Harry the first time, too. He started doing this in August, and it's only November now. 

"She already knows everything from you."

Guilt tears through Harry's heartstrings. "Not everything," he argues weakly. "And she always liked your stories better, anyway. I'd like to hear whatever you have to say, too."

They've gotten better in their relationship, they have. It's less co-existing and more living as one unit again. They aren't exactly back to where they were before, and Louis told him last night before bed that he's pretty sure they'll never get back to that place, and it felt like a slap in the face. Still does, even if it’s probably the truth. 

Louis starts out quietly telling her about how much he misses her. It's not the first time Louis' told her that, so he must be trying to familiarize himself with talking to her again. Then, he talks about work and how last month, there was this little girl who was in for pneumonia. He leaves out the part where he had to assign another nurse to her case because she reminded him too much of Izzy and chooses to tell her about the little stuffed animal she had with her. Obviously, Harry doesn't pressure him to include that part of the story, and he just closes his eyes and listens. 

He talks about Clifford and Bruce, and Lady, their newest addition. She’s a small, one-eyed pug named after the pug sitting on the top shelf in Izzy's room. And he pretends like it wasn’t so fucking hard, getting something new. Harry and Louis almost backed out of the adoption countless times, too scared that they were taking too large of a step forward, and sometimes, Harry still feels guilty. Izzy would love Lady, and Lady would love Izzy, and they should’ve had the chance to be best buddies. They should have. 

He talks about how Zayn and Liam are talking about adopting another kid, which Harry hadn't told her yet because her and Nathan were best friends, and he was scared she would be sad she couldn't meet the new baby. And he knows how stupid he sounds: Izzy's not listening because she's dead. She's under the ground they're carefully and purposefully not sitting on, and she’s not listening or coming back or doing anything other than rotting. Call him crazy, he doesn’t care. Talking to her and pretending otherwise helps. 

Louis tells her about her aunts, about her grandmas, about everyone she ever got to meet. He says he misses her a few more times, and then he starts to talk about how much Harry misses her, like he’s not right behind him.

“You were his favorite thing in the whole wide world, Iz,” Louis says. “Still are.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just continues holding Louis. 

Louis’ in the middle of telling Izzy that the store discontinued her favorite brand of fruit snacks when they hear a loud, familiar, “Oh, fuck,’” followed by another voice hissing, “Be quiet.” They turn around just in time to see the backs of Liam, Zayn and Niall quickly retreating, and then 

They all freeze when Louis calls out to them. For a few seconds, they don’t turn around and nobody says anything, and there’s a loud sigh and Niall turns to look at them. “We thought you two came in the morning.”

They normally do, but Louis wanted to wait to do it until tonight. Harry doesn’t get what they’re doing here, and maybe that’s wrong. He just didn’t realize they still cared enough to visit.

"We always come at night," Liam elaborates as he turns around. Zayn goes with him, and they both look guilty. Harry doesn't understand why; it warms his heart to know they still love her. It makes him feel less alone in all this. 

"We'll go and come back later," Zayn offers, motioning behind them. He's still wearing his scrubs, and Harry wants to cry with how happy he is that he was willing to come visit her after working all day. Going home with Liam is probably what he really wants to do -- Harry wonders if he even got to see Nathan before he went to bed -- and yet he's here. They all are here. 

"Don't," Louis pleads. He squeezes Harry's hand and he squeezes back, giving him permission to offer them to stay. "Stay. It's okay."

They do, and the five up them curl up around her grave after they place their teddy bears and flowers on her grave, next to Louis and Harry's. Liam’s the one holding the teddy bear, and it’s a lot like the ones usually left at Izzy’s gravesite. Zayn drapes himself against Harry’s side, his arm thrown across Harry’s stomach so he can hold onto Louis’ arm. Part of Harry wishes he could find it in himself to joke and tell Zayn to get his germy scrubs away from them, but he doesn’t actually care. All he cares about is knowing that he daughter is still loved. 

Nobody says anything after that, and Harry wonders what they'd do if Louis and himself weren't here. If they've done this these past two years. Surely, they don't sit here silently. Or maybe they do, maybe it's not too hard for them to just think about her. 

After twenty minutes, Louis asks them to come back to theirs for a little while. Initially, Harry wants to protest; this is a day in which they’re supposed to be miserable and alone, isn’t it? There’s no room for friends coming over on a day like today. But. . . Izzy always loved when her uncles came over, so maybe it’s okay. And it’s clear that Louis wants them to come, and he’s not going to tell Louis how to grieve. 

The three of them agree, and then they stand. As Harry wipes off the dirt on the back of Louis’ pants, he notices the look that Liam and Zayn share. They look guilty. 

"You don't have to come back to ours," Harry tells them. He knows first-hand that a night in with your husband and child is the best thing you can ask for, and he wishes he had more of those. 

"It's not that," Zayn says quickly, shaking his head. "We haven't seen you two in a while, it's just -- " He glances to Liam, who finishes his thought for him. 

"Nathan's at my sister's. I -- we can always just ask Ruth to watch him, but he's a little bit too attached to us right now and we don't want to force him to be away from us."

They both avert their eyes from Harry's, and Niall's holding his breath like he doesn't know what's going to happen. 

In an attempt to remain calm, Harry digs his fingers into the palm of his hand. It’s not so much to do with the idea of being around another child on today that’s got Harry worked up, it’s the fact that Liam and Zayn think Harry can’t handle seeing his nephew, and that he’s only realized now that it’s been a few months since he last seen Nathan. Are they protecting Harry and Louis from watching another child live while theirs is dead, or are they protecting Nathan from them? That’s what Harry can’t quite work out. 

"You can pick him up and take him back to ours," Louis says from behind him, "or you three can just head home. It's all right."

They turn to Harry for confirmation, and Harry despises that he’s the weak one in all this. That everyone sees Louis as the strong one, that one who handled this all better. Harry’s only been working again for the last three months, and he had to transfer to a high school because he couldn’t take being around the little kids all the time. Louis went back to work after three months. 

Harry’s the weak one, and everyone notices, and he hates it. 

“I’d love to see him again,” Harry says, doing his best to keep any emotion out of his voice. “Don’t think you have to shield me from him because we lost her. It’s okay.”

Zayn nods and looks a little less guilty, but LIam’s still got that crease in his forehead and worry in his eyes. He’s not sure he believes Harry can take it, and Harry just hopes he can prove him wrong. That he can gain back a bit of their trust that he hadn’t realized he lost.

As soon as he sees a very sleepy Nathan tucked away in Liam’s arms, Harry knows this is going to be difficult for him. Nathan looks so loved and trusting, and Liam looks soft and sated, and Harry’s never going to get a moment like that again. He watches them approach the house through the dining room window, and he hates how he wishes that they’d turn around and go back to their car and leave. 

This isn’t the first time he’s seen Nathan since she’s died, but it is the first time he’s seen him on a day like this, and he completely overestimated himself. He misses her too much. He can’t take this.

He hears Louis open the front door, and a loud, happy cheer comes from Nathan, so maybe he’s not as tired as Harry thought. He hears them all laugh, and Harry knows that he has to go to the living room and just get this night over with. Hiding in the dining room won’t help anyone. 

He manages to drag himself to the living room and into the sight of the others. It’s hard, forcing himself to keep his voice emotionless. Nathan has his arms wrapped around one of Louis’ legs, and as soon as he sees Harry, his eyes light up and races towards him.

"Hey, sweetheart," he breathes out, and then immediately regrets it. That's what he called Izzy the most, sweetheart. He pushes it down and manages a laugh when Nathan wraps his arms around Harry's neck as soon as he bends down. He's a year younger than Isabella would've been if she was alive, if today two years ago she wasn't found dead, and that's hard to choke down. 

Throughout the night, it doesn’t get any easier. The worst of it comes when Nathan sits in Harry’s lap and falls asleep in the middle of the movie Louis turned on. He freezes, wondering why this is happening, if his pain is just a sick joke to the universe, but when Liam offers to take him, Harry immediately says no. Secretly, Harry’s grateful at the reminder of what it feels like to be slept on by a child. Izzy was the worst about bedtimes, and more often than not, she would fall asleep on one of them before they took her to her room. 

Around midnight, they decide it’s okay if they turn on an adult movie. Nathan is still asleep, now curled up in their guest room. When Liam detached Nathan from Harry, it felt like his heart shattered, like he was losing her all over again, which is so, so stupid. Nathan isn’t Isabella. Isabella is dead. 

Since  _ The Hangover _ is only funny the first few times you watch it, a conversation starts up between them quickly. They talk about work and their mutual friends, about getting older and their parents. About everything, really. And it feels incredible to be around his friends again, and eventually, the hurt starts to thaw around Harry’s heart. 

And then Louis, who is resting against Harry with his head on Harry’s thigh, looks up at Liam and Zayn and asks, “Does Nathan ever talk about Izzy?”

Harry gnaws on his bottom lip as they all quiet and wait for Liam or Zayn to answer. He’s been wanting to ask that, too. He was silently wishing for Nathan to ask about her earlier, just so Harry had an excuse to talk about his little girl again. Nobody except Louis ever wants to talk about her, always avoids the subject like it’s the plague. Harry wants to constantly remind everyone how proud he was of her, and how much they loved her and how much she loved them. About her love for her bike and the dogs. He just wants to talk about her. 

It feels like everyone is trying to forget her, and that's something Harry is terrified of. 

Liam struggles with how to answer the question, and he must decide that being honest won’t hurt. “All the time,” he says, glancing down at his hands in his lap. “They were friends, you know? And they went to preschool together, so Nate is used to always having a friend around.” Liam sighs and shrugs a little. “We thought that he’d forget about her eventually. And I know. . . I know that sounds terrible. But he still sometimes asks us when he can see her next or where she went, and it’s hard on him.”

Zayn nods, eyes shiny like he's about to cry. "He likes to leave one of his stuffed animals by the front door, just in case she comes to visit while he's not awake or home."

Harry can't be blamed for making a wounded noise low in the back of his throat at that. His throat is burning and his chest is tight, and he really, really wishes Louis hadn't asked. 

"I'm so sorry," Zayn says hurriedly. "I -- we don't know what to do about it. Since we got him in to see a therapist, he's gotten a lot better, but he's still so torn up about it. We think that's why he's so attached to us still, and it's -- " Zayn shakes his head. "I shouldn't be complaining, shit, I'm sorry."

And no, Zayn really shouldn't be. A different day, Harry might recognize his selfishness, might stop to question why he didn’t know Nathan was seeing a therapist, but not today. Not two years after he had to see his daughter dead on a cold table. Not after everything. He doesn't get to complain that his kid is a little upset. 

Harry recognizes the hurt in all of their eyes when he excuses himself quietly and leaves the room. As he stands, Louis goes to come after him, but Harry tells him not to and he slowly sits back down. In their room, Harry curls up as tightly as he can around one of Louis’ pillows, the pain in his chest not loosening any. 

Around three-thirty in the morning, the noise of small feel pattering around in the hallway and then going down the stairs wakes Harry. It’s not loud at all, it’s just Harry’s parental instincts acting up. Harry woke up when Louis came to bed, and Louis had let him know that everyone but Niall was staying the night, and then again when someone closed the bathroom door about an hour ago. And he’s waking up now, so chances are, his mind is too stressed to stay asleep right now. 

He doesn’t want to get out of bed and follow Nathan to see what he’s up to, but it doesn’t sound like Liam or Zayn are awake, and it’s not smart to leave Nathan unsupervised downstairs, out of ear-shot. For a moment, he considers waking Louis, but he decides against it and gets out of bed himself. 

He finds Nathan lying sprawled out on the kitchen floor, feet up in the air as he quietly talks to Lady. Lady's staring at him, curious and probably waiting for a treat, but as soon as Harry walks in, she waddles over to him, tail wagging furiously. Nathan sits up slowly and turns around to face him, and by the look on his face, he knows he's doing something he shouldn't be. 

"Hi, Uncle Harry," Nathan murmurs, pouting slightly. "I just was talkin' to Lady."

Harry smiles a little. "I see that, bud. But you know you shouldn't be wandering around by yourself."

"I'm six," Nathan argues. "Papa even says I'm a big boy now."

"Even big boys need their sleep, and it's definitely too early to be awake."

Nathan seems to think it over before nodding. He gets to his feet and flicks the kitchen light off before walking over to Harry. He latches onto Harry’s hand, and it makes him smile.  _ Big boy _ , he thinks humorlessly.  _ Sure. _

As Harry begins walking towards the stairs, he notices something out of the corner of his eye that he didn’t before. There’s a stuffed toy by the front door, barely visible from the limited light, but Harry can make it out. 

"Nathan." There's a lump in his throat that's hard to talk around. "Did you put that there? Is that why you're awake?"

Nathan peers up at him, eyes wide. He's probably been scolded for this before. "For Izzy. She's not home, and I thought she'd like Mr. Bear. He's soft. And Lady promised not to eat him."

"Sweetie," Harry whispers, every part of him twisting in pain. He can tell how much Nathan misses her, and he needs to understand she's not coming home. 

"Daddy says she's not coming to visit ever again," he says sadly. His small hand fidgets in Harry's. "But she hasn't been over in a really long time and I just thought maybe she'd like him." He teeters on his feet a bit, anxious. 

Harry bends down to his level and grabs his other hand so that he's holding both of them now. Nathan just stares at him, and Harry wonders how many times he's been through this. "What else has Daddy told you about Izzy, hmm?" He knows they've told him that she's dead, but he's unsure of how they went about it and he doesn't want to make it any worse. 

"They said that she's gone and not coming back. They said that it's not 'cause she doesn't wanna see me, it's because she can't." His voice catches and Harry squeezes his hands, maybe a little too tightly. "They said that she died and that everyone dies, and that I can be sad."

Harry nods. "You can be sad, Nate. It's always okay to be sad. I'm sad, too. Everyone gets sad."

Nate glances up at the stairs before looking back at Harry. "Daddy and Papa got sad today. Daddy was crying and then Papa got mad that I wasn't brushing my teeth."

Harry can picture it easily, Liam snapping at Nathan for eavesdropping. Liam gets some type of way when Zayn's upset, and he's not surprised to hear that his protectiveness hasn't wavered over the years. 

"Is Izzy ever coming back?" Nathan asks, sighing quietly. He's heard the answer to this question before. 

Harry shakes his head sadly. "No, bud. She's not."

"Never ever?"

"Never ever."

Nathan nods like he already knows this, and Harry doesn't realize it's going to send him into a fit of tears before it's too late. He flops into Harry's arms and cries into his shoulder, and Harry wraps his arms around him. This is a lot. He hasn’t been able to comfort a child in so fucking loud, and now Nathan’s upset and he doesn’t know what to do. It’s like he’s out of practice, or something. Or maybe it’s because he doesn’t know how to comfort someone else when he’s struggling over the same thing. Whatever it is, Harry’s heart is breaking for Nathan. 

"But I really, really miss her," Nathan cries. "She's my friend, and I thought friends were supposed to stay forever."

"God, Nate," he murmurs, clenching his eyes shut. "It's okay to miss her, all right? I miss her every single day. But you've got to remember that she wouldn't want you sad." Harry had nearly punched Niall when he told him that, but after a while it got easier to believe. Izzy despised when either of them were upset, and she always did her best to fix it.. 

Nathan just cries some more, and Harry feels incredibly guilty. It's been two years; a child can barely focus on something for more than two minutes, let alone mourn over the same person for two years. It's his fault that he underestimated how much Nathan missed her, his fault for not checking in more often. 

Harry wishes Nathan had been at the funeral or the service. Maybe there he could've found the closure he needed. But then again, he was only four at the time, and Liam and Zayn know their son better than Harry does. 

"I don't want Daddy or Papa to be gone, too," Nathan says, his fingers tightening on Harry. "Or you or Uncle Lou or Uncle Niall or -- "

"Honey, it's okay. You don't have to worry about that right now. You can't let that scare you."

"But Izzy -- "

" _ I know, _ " Harry says. He doesn't know how much longer his heart can take this. He can't imagine having to go through this every night with him. "Isabella is gone, and she's not coming back, but that doesn't mean everyone else is going to go away, too."

Nathan hiccups loudly. Nothing Harry can say will fix this, and he decides that waking Liam and Zayn will be best for Nathan. He scoops him up gently, and when Nathan doesn't protest, he carefully walks them up the stairs and to the guest room. 

He flicks on the light. Zayn is curled up into Liam's side like a cat, and Harry can see the spot next to Liam where Nathan was previously laying. Nathan sniffles a few more times before Harry carefully sets him down the bed. He's about to wake them, but before he can, Nathan's quiet cries and the light does.

Liam wakes first, eyebrows furrowing and nose twitching. He sits up slowly, blinking in confusion, and then he realizes it's Nathan. "Darling," he murmurs tiredly, pulling away from Zayn to comfort Nate. Nathan burrows his face into Liam's chest, causing Liam to sigh softly. 

"I'm sorry," Harry says quietly, and Liam jumps. He must've not realized he was there, too focused on his son. "He was upset, and I thought I was helping, but. . ."

Liam gives him a small smile. "It's okay. Nothing you can say will help him when he gets like this." Zayn's starting to stir, and Liam must decide that this isn't worth waking him up over, because he slowly gets out of bed and motions for Harry to turn off the light. Harry does, and then Liam shushes Nathan quietly as they leave the room. 

Harry offers to stay with them, but Liam tells him not worry about it and to go back to bed. He does as he's told, purely because if he sees Nathan cry much longer, then he might start, too, and that won't be good for anyone.

The next day, Louis and Harry go back to work, Liam and Zayn leave with Nathan, and they start their third year of missing her. 

-

-

Teaching high school is about as stressful as actually being in it was. He wishes he was strong enough to handle being around children, because teaching kids was always the plan. Teaching sarcastic, unhappy teenagers was never what he wanted to do, yet here he is. 

It's not all terrible; he actually quite enjoys it, just not as much as he used to enjoy teaching first graders. Having actual intelligent conversations with people only about a little over a decade younger than him is refreshing, and eavesdropping on drama is more fun than he's willing to admit. The staff here are nice, although the only person he really talks to is Ms. Davidson, a history teacher like him, and this is his second year here. He's almost certain that words got around to all the other teachers about Izzy, because he's caught a few students whispering about it before. 

It's not exactly surprising, everyone knowing. It wasn't a huge case, but it was picked up by the local news station after she went missing. The press probably would've been worse, more hounding, if she had been missing for longer. She hadn't, though. She was found within fifteen hours of her disappearance. And now it’s been four years, 

So, not only is he the only openly gay teacher, he's also the father of a murdered child, and really, he can't blame anyone for not wanting to become friends with him. It becomes a bit lonely sometimes, because at the elementary school, teachers would stop by his classroom all of the time to say hi. 

Fortunately enough, there are a decent amount of students who've taken an interest in him. He's relatively young and doesn't care much when they cuss, he lets them turn their homework in late without docking too much credit and tries his best to make the class bearable. Sometimes, there are students, mostly male, who decide to ask a question that launches a giant, irrelevant discussion and they get nothing productive done, and most of the other students tend to like those days, so he doesn’t try all that hard to stop it. There are some kids who eat in his room during lunch, and it makes him feel a little less alone, even though they aren't usually there to talk to him. 

Another con of high school is that there's so many fucking girls named Isabella that it makes his skin crawl. Him and Louis hadn't realized how popular of a name they had picked, and Harry almost wishes they would've picked something like Chrysanthemum or Alaska, anything more unique. And then he immediately feels guilty for wishing that, because there's not a thing he'd change about her. 

The guilt is something that never really goes away, and it's not something Harry thought he'd have to face. He feels guilty about literally everything. Not going in her room, buying new brands she never got to try, going into stores she used to love. It's difficult to handle. But him and Louis are at a really good spot right now, so they figure out how to handle it together. 

He's in the middle of grading homework while the students work on their assignment when someone calls his name. He recognizes the voice as Eli's, a smart boy who refuses to do any of his work and is often the one who asks off-topic questions and tries to push Harry's buttons. All in good fun, of course, and Harry doesn't actually mind it too much. Some days he throughouly annoys the fuck out of Harry, while other days he silently hopes he gets them off track. 

"Mr. Tomlinson, it's rude to ignore your favorite student," Eli says, and finally, Harry gives in and glances up. No matter how much he likes the kid, he definitely regrets putting him near his desk. He thought it'd keep him in check a bit more, but really, it probably did the opposite. 

"What can I do for you?"

Eli's got that look on his face like he already knows he's won. He smiles and leans back in his chair, shrugging gently. He’s smug in an insecure way. From talking to Ms. Davidson, and from knowing how to read students, he’s almost certain Eli has a rough homelife. 

"What's your hubby like?" Eli asks, and they both ignore the girl who scoffs at the word ‘hubby’. This isn’t the first time Eli’s brought up Louis, although usually he’s not so direct about it. 

Harry sets his pen down, not sure what to say. "He's. . . nice. And sweet. And funny."

"What's his name?"

"Louis. Why?"

"Why not?" Eli argues, and Harry sighs. That's his answer to everything. "What does he do for a living?"

"He's a nurse at an E.R. nearby." Harry wonders how many more questions this kid can ask about something he cares nothing about. He doesn’t actually mind. Not yet. 

"How old is he?"

"Thirty-three."

"How old are _ you _ ?"

"Thirty-one."

"When'd you meet him?"

A student across the room groans and asks him to please stop talking, to which Harry laughs, but he answers Eli's question anyway. "When I was sixteen. We started dating when I was seventeen, and we married when I was twenty-one."

"That's young," a girl named Kacey points out, and then another girl reminds her that there's three different girls pregnant in their grade and everyone murmurs their own reaction to that. It's true. From what Harry's heard, anyway.

"Yeah, well." Harry shrugs, leaning back in his seat. "It certainly doesn't work for everyone. But we're still together, so I guess it worked out alright."

Eli's staring at him curiously, and Harry fully expects him to ask some wildly inappropriate question about their sex life that flusters Harry beyond belief. Instead, Eli cocks his head a bit and frowns. "When'd you have your daughter?"

Before Harry can pinpoint how he feels about being asked about her, Kacey shoots Eli a glare and tells him he's being a dick. Eli doesn't waver from looking at him expectantly, and Harry narrows his eyes a bit, trying to decide if he's asking because he's genuinely curious or to be a prick. 

"I was twenty-three," he answers slowly, "and Louis was twenty-five."

Eli raises his eyebrows. "Still young."

"Still worked out alright," Harry fires back, and immediately, he feels the repercussions of it.

Eli's face falls slightly, and the whole room kind of falls silent at that. Because it didn't work out alright, did it? It did, he guesses, because he wouldn't have changed any bit of Isabella's life but the end of it, but his students are young and all they know is that their teacher's daughter was murdered four years ago. 

God, he hates how fast the time is passing. It doesn’t feel like four years. It’s hard, thinking about how Izzy hasn’t been in their house in four years, hasn’t pet the dogs in four years, that he hasn’t been hugged by her in four years. 

Feeling slightly defensive, he sits up straighter. He should've told Eli to fuck off a while ago, and now he's got his whole class looking at him, waiting for him to speak about something he hates talking about. "Our ages had nothing to with what happened."

"Of course not," Eli murmurs, and he sounds genuinely apologetic. 

A few minutes pass, and everyone's gone back to their work, this time quietly like he had asked in the first place. There's only fifteen minutes left of class and until Harry's lunch, so he has the opportunity to leave for a bit if he needs to. Maybe he will, maybe he'll call Louis to see if he can talk for a little while. 

Eli clears his throat, and Harry's chest constricts a bit. He glances up hesitantly, and Eli's looking at him again. 

“I don’t want to be disrespectful, but, like.” Eli sighs and sits up more, and it’s clear he’s trying to figure out how to word whatever he wants to say. Harry’s scared, almost, and he should tell him to quit while he’s ahead, but right now, he can’t find the words. “Why -- I just heard, like. Why were you a suspect in her murder?”

Harry stays silent for about half a minute, trying to figure out what the best thing to say is. If he sends Eli to the office like he wants to, he effectively avoids the question. But teenagers watch too many crime shows and will take him avoiding the question as a sign of guilt. He taps his pencil a few times, trying to find the words, before deciding to answer. 

“I wasn’t ever officially a suspect,” he starts. His heart is hammering in his chest. “And there were no other leads. The -- the school was at fault. They released her to someone who wasn’t on her emergency cards, and they. . . they were trying to save themselves, is what it comes down to. My husband had an alibi, and I didn’t. I was,” his voice cracks, and he takes a second to clear his throat. “I was at home. So in an attempt to quiet the case down, they tried to pin it on me.”

Eli doesn't flinch. He doesn’t care what he’s doing to Harry. "But it obviously wasn't you."

It rekindles the anger Harry was drowned in when he was brought in for questioning. "You can be a smart alec all you want and ask your stupid questions, but I'm not going to tolerate you accusing me of harming my daughter. You've already crossed a line, and I've crossed a professional line by answering you, and I suggest you don't cross that line any further." 

It's not a threat, and he's sure to keep any malice out of his tone. It's just stern, so Eli and everyone else knows to back off.

"I'm not accusing you of anything, Mr. Tomlinson," Eli says quickly. "I'm not, I swear. I just heard some shit about you being arrested for a few days and stuff and I didn't know how much of it was true."

"I was never arrested," Harry snaps, maybe a little too fiercely. He's definitely going to need to take that break at lunch. "I was questioned, yes, but I wasn’t arrested. And three hours after she was found, the person came forward and confessed. There was barely any case."

He's said enough, enough to clear any suspicions his students apparently have of him and enough to get him fired, probably. Eli opens his mouth again, but Kacey tells him to shut the fuck up and Harry gives him stern look, and it’s enough to shut him up, and for the rest of the hour, Harry's stuck wondering how many people in the world thinks he murdered his own daughter.

Louis, by some miracle, is able to talk to him on his lunch break and calm him down a bit. Harry went to his car to get some privacy. Louis' already deemed Eli a total twat who will go nowhere in life, and after Harry reminds him gently that's how Louis used to be in high school, Louis still doesn't waver. He's always been protective of Harry, almost too much at times, but especially after Isabella died. 

"I shouldn't have stayed home that day," Harry says quietly after listening to Louis smoke on the other line for a minute or two. Neither Zayn or Louis smoke at home, but they both do at work. He’s pretty sure Liam doesn’t bitch about it, so Harry doesn’t either. 

Louis makes a small noise. "Why would it matter? I mean, yeah, you would've had an alibi, but you didn't need one because you weren't guilty."

"No, Louis, that's not -- " He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. "If I would have been at the school, maybe I would've -- "

"Do not fucking start that," Louis interrupts sternly. "Don’t you dare start blaming yourself for this."

But Harry's always blamed himself for it, always. He's just never admitted it to anyone until now, too scared they'd agree with him. Part of the reason Louis and Harry enrolled Isabella at the school Harry worked at is so he could keep an eye on her from kindergarten through her fourth grade. And if he had been at the school that day, he could've seen a car he didn't recognize outside a window or saw her leaving. Maybe he would've even got bored and hung out in her classroom, or convinced her teacher to let her come to his classroom. 

"I was supposed to protect her," Harry whispers. "That was my job, Louis, that was my  _ job _ . I should've been there, I should've, God, I should've just fucking gone to work, I should've -- "

"Stop right now. Stop saying that. If you would've been at work, you would have been on the field trip with your kids. You wouldn't even have been there. You wouldn't have, love."

"You don't know that," he argues, tears weighing his voice. "I could've saved her, Lou. I could've."

"He killed her almost immediately," Louis argues. "Even if you saw something, it wouldn't have given us enough time to find her."

Harry scrubs the tears off his face. "But our baby wouldn't have been laying dead in a ditch for fifteen hours straight. Even if I couldn't have saved her, I could've prevented that."

"Harry. Baby. Please don't do this to yourself."

"If I went to work, I would've been there and he wouldn't have been bold enough to try and take her while I was in the same building as her."

Louis' quiet for a moment, and Harry's blood runs cold with fear that Louis agrees with him. But then he hears a muffled sniffle and no, Louis doesn't agree with him, he's just crying because his stupid husband can't keep it together yet again. 

"Harry," Louis starts sternly, almost mean. "With that logic, it's my fault for picking out the house. It was my idea to move into that neighborhood; if we would've picked anywhere else, he would have never been our neighbor and he wouldn't have been able to see you weren't at work. And he's a fucking lunatic, Harry. He said he wanted to kill her from the moment we adopted her. He would've done it eventually, and what if he had done it in front of us? Or hurt one of us in the process? What if it had been when someone was babysitting her or something, and someone like your mum was hurt, too?"

Harry stays silent. Louis' got some valid points, but it doesn't make him feel any less responsible. 

"Babe, I -- I don't know what to say. I wish I could see you right now. You've got to know you couldn't have done anything. Her death isn't your fault in any way."

Harry glances at the time. It's three minutes until his fifth hour. "I've got to get to class," he says blankly.

"Don't fucking talk like that and then blow me off. You can be late. Just talk to me. Please."

"I gotta go, Lou. I'll be fine. I'll see you tonight, okay? Love you."

Louis sighs loudly. "I love you, too, okay, but you better not -- "

Harry clicks  _ end call  _ and hopes it doesn't piss Louis off too badly before he pulls himself out of the car and heads back inside.

The next hour goes by fine, and Harry thinks he can make the day without any more scrutiny. But the word must've gotten around by the next period, because he overhears a group of students whispering about how he blew up on his class. And that's not what happened -- he maintained his composure, for the most part -- although he's not exactly surprised that's what people are saying. Eli's a popular kid; his friends aren't going to admit that he went too far. 

By the end of the day, Harry feels like he's going to crawl out of his skin any second. As soon as the last kid leaves his room, it feels like he can finally breathe again, like his lungs have stopped punishing him for acting so unprofessional earlier. 

It's part of the contract he signed to stay an hour after school to seem open for students to ask for extra help, which normally he doesn't mind. He'd rather be grading papers here rather than at home, his brain supplies, but when he thinks better of it, it's not exactly true. There used to be a time where he was constantly needed at home; now, he has the house to himself until seven o'clock. That's plenty of time to grade papers. He just forgets sometimes. 

For the first time since he hung up on Louis, he checks his phone, and sure enough, there are some strongly-worded texts waiting for him. Louis is concerned more than anything, so Harry's not exactly put-off by anything Louis has to say. Louis' texts just read that it's unfair to do that to him while he's at work and helpless, that he'll try to come home early if he can, and to call if he needs anything,  _ and I mean it -- anything.  _

Harry responds with a simple  _ sorry xx  _ and puts his phone back in the desk's drawer. Despite wanting to crawl into bed in sleep, he's got fifty-six minutes left of work and he actually has things he needs to get done. 

He's responding to some emails when there's a soft knock at the door. It's not exactly uncommon -- sometimes kids leave things behind on accident, or they have a few questions about an assignment. He glances to the door to see Kacey, the girl from earlier who kind of stuck up for him. Harry knows better than to assume she's here for anything other than to talk to him about what happened, because Kacey's a good student who doesn't need to ask questions. 

"What's up?" Harry asks, keeping his voice light. He can't lose his footing around a student again. This is only his second year here, and he can't be screwing up too much. 

She smiles shyly before walking closer to his desk, and she shrugs gently. It's obvious she feels awkward about whatever she's here to say, and Harry wishes she just wouldn't have come at all.

"Eli's a dick," she starts, and instantly, Harry shakes his head. 

"He just asked a question. It's okay."

She scoffs, clearly disagreeing with him. "He shouldn't have asked about that. All he did was just bring it to everyone's attention who didn't already know."

Harry didn't think about that, the fact this will further ignite any discussion about it. He falters slightly, but catches himself before he shows too much. "You don't have to worry about that. It's fine."

"It's all anyone's going to talk about for, like, the next week." She tightens her hold on her backpack straps. "Doesn't that bother you?"

"Of course it does," he agrees quickly. "But there's nothing I can do about that. Teenagers love to talk." She looks slightly guilty, and Harry wonders if she's gossiped about him before. Probably. He talked shit about all of his teachers, even the ones he liked. 

She sighs quietly, and then shrugs again. "It'll die down eventually. It was a big deal last year, when you started working here, but everyone kind of stopped talking about it. Until now, I guess." She averts her eyes quickly before saying, "I'm sorry for what happened, anyway. A lot of people are."

His stomach churns. He doesn't want to fucking talk about her death. Why is that all anyone talks about in regard to her? She was more than a murder victim, she was kind and sweet and bubbly and a little girl with a bright future. The only person who has a right to talk about her dying is Louis, and Harry wants to keep it that way. Louis' the only one who'll ever understand. 

"Thank you," he mumbles lamely. He could never find an adequate response to that.

"Is that her?" Kacey asks, pointing to a picture next to Harry's computer on his desk. It's of him, Louis, and Izzy, all smiling for the camera. It's not Harry's favorite picture of them, because they're all posing for the camera and it fails to show how much fun they always had together, but all the other pictures are hanging up somewhere in the house. They belong there. She belongs there. 

"Yes, that's her." 

She came here to apologize for a student's intrusive questions, and yet here she is, gawking at a family photo of them, probably wondering if that's the last one they ever took together. It's not; Izzy was only three in that picture. There's a lot more pictures of them all, thankfully.

"What was her name?"

"Kacey," he says sternly. Again, not mean, just using his teacher-voice. His dad-voice. He rarely had to use it with Izzy. "Did you have a question?"

She looks embarrassed, and quickly sputters out apologies. She apologises profusely for intruding and quickly excuses herself. Her face is bright red red as she leaves his classroom, and he sighs, glancing back at the picture she was referring to. 

He grabs it, examining it closely. There's a few smudges over the glass, which he carefully wipes off with the end of his shirt. He tries not to think anything too sad; Isabella makes him happy, too. He tries to remember that he doesn't have to be sad every time he thinks of her. 

After a moment, he smiles sadly at the photo and places it on the rack underneath his desk so only he can see it.

Gemma's waiting at the front of the school to pick him up, and Harry doesn't even argue with her about getting in the car. He'd much rather go home to his dogs and unwind from the day, but he knows Louis' probably given her strict instructions on not letting him go home by himself. He doesn't say anything when he shuts the door; she's the one who decided to come, and he's not going to make it easy for her.

"You haven't seen me in four months and I don't even get a hi?" she asks. She doesn't sound angry, although she probably is. Harry's been terrible about keeping in touch with people since Isabella. It's something he feels incredibly guilty about, especially when he finds out important things through Louis or he finally calls his mum back and she answers with 'oh, Harry'. 

He glances at her before looking forward again. "Hi, then."

"You're such an asshat," she mumbles, but says nothing else before starting her car. The engine roars to life and it clashes with the soft song playing on the radio. 

"Are you taking me home?"

She scoffs. "'Course not. We're going for lunch."

He decides not to correct her on the fact it's three-thirty and definitely not lunch time. Instead, he glances out the window and tries to come up with something to say that won't come out snide. Gemma is his sister and she deserves more than him acting like an entitled brat the entire time. 

Harry's gotten better about being needy and moody, he really has. It's something he's really tried to work on, because Louis doesn't need to deal with that all of the time and he doesn't want everyone else getting sick of him. It forces him to remember the goods things in life, and opens his eyes to the fact that Louis is hurting still, too. 

"What've you been up to lately?" he forces himself to ask. It comes out a bit flatter than he intends and he silently curses. He actually cares to hear her answer, and his tone deters her from giving him a genuine answer.

"The normal," she answers. "Hanging with Josh, paying bills, worrying about my little brother."

He glances at her, confused and fully intending on ignoring that last bit. "You're back with Josh?" He hadn't known; Louis told him a few months ago that they'd split. Something to do with Josh wanting to move too quickly and Gemma wanting him to slow down. Harry didn't say anything, of course, but he has a feeling his sister was in the wrong with that one. Josh and Gemma were together for two years by that time. 

She looks to him for a second and nods. Looking back out at the road, she elaborates. "For a little while now. A month or so."

"And you're happy with him?"

"Very much so."

He drops it, not wanting to ask who had changed their mind. It's none of his business, and he's not going to ask any questions unless he's under the impression she wants him to. He doesn't get that from her, so he says nothing else and turns up the radio. 

She drags him to some hipster restaurant with awful music that would have Louis in a tizzy. He gives her a pointed look as they sit down at a table, and she tells him to shut up, laughing. 

They don't really talk much while they pick out what they want to eat. Harry asks for a salad and Gemma gets chicken fingers. When the waitress asks them if they want anything, Harry silently hopes Gemma asks for something alcoholic because then it gives him an excuse to do the same, but she doesn't. She asks for a water and Harry begrudgingly does the same. Normally he can count on Gemma to get him at least a little tipsy. 

As they wait for the food, the silence is starting to gnaw at Harry's nerves so he tries his best at conversation. Again, he scrambles to find something to say, and then he finds himself pointing out how tired Gemma looks and then immediately apologizing for it. 

She just laughs, waving her hand. "Trust me, I know. I feel like shit. Sleep refused to come last night."

"Why?" he asks, and then thanks the waitress who brings them their waters. 

Her face drops slightly. Instantly, Harry's more interested than he was before. She normally doesn't worry people with her problems. 

"No reason," she lies, smiling tightly. 

"Don't lie to me." He sounds like a kid who's been denied something, and he has no shame in it. If something is going on with his sister, he wants to know. "You deal with my problems all of the time, the least I can do is listen to yours."

"It's not something I want to talk about, if I'm honest." Her voice is quiet and guarded, and now Harry's really, really concerned, but he doesn't know how to go about pressing it. 

"Is it Josh?" he asks slowly. 

A bitter laugh tumbles from her lips. "Something like that, I guess." Harry must make a face that reflects how protective that makes him feel, because she laughs again, this time happier. "Calm down, H. It's not like that. Besides, you couldn't hurt a fly even if you tried."

He huffs, because that's not true. If it meant protecting his family, he would do anything, and he flinches slightly when his thoughts go back to Izzy, about how he couldn't protect her. About how he could've if he was there. About how he'd definitely and without hesitation hurt the man who took her from them, no matter how gentle he is by nature. 

"Louis' worried about you," she says softly, and Harry's dragged back to reality. What she says doesn't even affect him anymore; he knows Louis is. 

He shrugs a little. "He always is." 

Gemma licks her lips and sits up straighter, looking awfully serious to be in a place like this. She reaches across the table and tries to grab his hand, and he immediately retracts his arm and hides it underneath the table. He loves his sister, he does, but he's sick and tired of today and she's not helping much. 

"Louis told me what you said."

"Don't, Gemma. Just don't, okay?" 

"No, Harry. You need to know that's not true. You need to realize that -- "

"I'm not doing this with you," he snaps, definitely harsher than necessary. It makes her stop for a minute, though, so he guesses it proves to be effective. "I'll talk to Louis about it."

"H -- "

"We're not doing this," he interrupts again, "so drop it or I'm leaving."

They both ignore the fact that he doesn't have any way to get back home besides walking or calling a cab, both of which he's not petty enough to do, and then they’re back to sitting in silence. It drives him a bit mad; he hasn't seen his sister in four months, and he's allowing himself to sabotage it already, to allow his issues get in the way of having a nice time. Another day he'd probably try harder to make it up to her, but he just doesn't have it in him today. 

Nothing gets better as lunch continues, and they get halfway through their meals until one of them says something again. It's Gemma, and it's only to tell him that she's going to the bathroom. He barely looks up when he mumbles an okay, but once she's left the table, he glances up in time to see her briefly rest a hand on her lower stomach, and immediately, Harry's filled with dread. 

She's back together with Josh. She refused a drink. She's tired and stressed. And now she's off to the bathroom with a gentle hand on her stomach that's covered with a loose-fitted sweatshirt. 

Gemma's pregnant, and it makes him want to scream. 

It's not fucking fair, his brain keeps repeating. It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fucking _ fair. _ She's going to have a healthy, beautiful baby and Harry's going to watch it grow, watch it out-live Isabella. And obviously Harry wishes no ill-will on her child, but fuck. It's not fucking fair. 

He wonders how far along she is, and decides it can't be more than a month or two because she said her and Josh have only recently gotten back together. The betrayal of not knowing dies down a bit with that connection, but it doesn't make him hurt any less. 

Harry was always supposed to be the parent first. And he was, and he is still a father, even if she's dead, it's just -- everyone's going to forget about Izzy. Their mum and their friends and their family are going to be elated over the baby, and they're going to forget all about  _ his _ baby. He's been secretly thankful that Liam and Zayn keep putting off their second adoption, and he honestly doesn't care if that makes him a terrible person. He's not ready to move on, to watch everyone forget about her and replace her. 

His head is light and he's not breathing evenly by the time Gemma gets back to the table. A part of him wants to bolt, but a larger part of him needs to hear her say it. His hands strangle the edge of the table and his fingers have gone white, and she's looking at him with worry written all over her face, and he can't wait any longer. 

"Please,  _ please _ tell me you aren't pregnant," he begs. He sounds every bit as pathetic as he feels, and when Gemma's face drops, he lets out a wounded, breathless noise. He puts his elbows on the table and holds his head, clenches his eyes shut tight and tries not to cry despite how badly he wants to. 

"Harry, I -- please don't be mad. Please don't, please, I -- " she wraps a hand around his forearm and squeezes. "Please don't hate me. I'm sorry."

"How could you do this to me?" he whimpers, and her hold tightens. 

"C'mon, H. Don't be like that. I can't handle you being upset with me for this."

And he knows he shouldn't be, so he stays silent and focuses on trying to breathe properly. He's being so fucking selfish, he knows it, he  _ knows it, _ but that doesn't make any thing easier. It doesn't change anything. She's going to be pregnant for the next however many months, and the entire time he's going to be making this about him, about  _ her,  _ no matter how hard he tries not to, if he feels like trying at all. 

It's going to be like this for the rest of his life, and he's not sure what to do with that. He's not ever going to recover from the pain of losing his daughter, and neither is Louis, because that's not something you recover from. It's something he just has to fucking deal with, something that'll get easier to ignore as he grows older but will always be there. They're never going to take apart that room, never going to take her pictures off the wall. And he's going to watch all the people in his life start to have kids, while he continues to choke on the past. 

"You've already had a shit enough day, love," she whispers softly. "Please just forget about this right now; put it on the back-burner. It's not something you have to think about right now. You've got a long seven months to come to terms with this, and you most certainly don't have to start dealing with it now."

He ignores her. There's no way he can ignore this now. "Does Louis know?" She's silent, and it pisses him off even more. He sighs, exasperated, and pulls his hands away from his face to give her an intense, hysterical look. "Are you ever going to start telling me things again?" he asks, louder than necessary. Not loud enough to draw stares, but close. "How long were you planning to wait, huh? Until the baby popped out of you and you had no other choice? Is that what we've come to?"

She matches his glare, retracting her hand from his. "I'm only two months in, and y _ ou've  _ been the one not calling or visiting. That's on  _ you _ . You've got Mum worried sick all of the time, and Robin's half convinced himself you forget he existed -- he's our step father, try and maybe give a fuck, yeah? Maybe if you would've called more, I'd feel less inclined to hide things from you." She huffs, sitting back in her chair. "And yes, Louis does know. Has for a little while now, maybe a week. I told him he could tell you, but he didn't think you were ready to hear it."

He's secretly thankful. Not an ounce of him is upset with Louis for not telling him, because Louis' right -- he can't handle it right now. But he doesn't let Gemma know that. "You never visit, either. You stopped trying, too."

She looks offended. "None of us have stopped trying, Harry, for fuck's sake. Get your head out of your arse, would you? The less we tried to contact you, the better you got, according to Louis. We thought you needed time."

A bubble of hysteria pops in his chest. "Time?  _ Time?  _ I don't need  _ time _ , Gemma, I need -- "  _ my daughter back _ is what he can't bring himself to say. He's about to keep going, to keep telling her all the ways she could be better, but he can't do it anymore. The guilt's shifted in his chest and now it's directly placed on his heart, and if he doesn't relieve some of it, he'll die. "Zayn and Liam won't have another child because of us," he blurts. "Louis still talks to them often, and they've completely stopped discussing a second adoption. Nathan's already almost eight; how much longer can they wait?"

There are still traces of anger left all over her face -- in her jaw, in her eyes, in the pinch of her eyebrows -- but she allows herself to adjust to the change of pace. "If I know Zayn Malik as well as I think I do, he wouldn't let anyone tell him what to do, especially regarding his kids."

It's true. Liam might let himself be pushed and pulled into a million different directions because of other people's opinions, but Zayn is harder to sway. "He was over one night. On the second anniversary of Izzy's death, and I -- he was complaining about Nathan, and I told him he didn't have a right to." He pulls at his hair, the memory of the hurt on his face stinging his brain. "You should've seen the looks on their faces, Gem. They were so fucking hurt, and ever since, it seems like the idea of another kid is completely off the table."

"Maybe you should talk to them," she offers gently, and immediately, Harry laughs bitterly. 

"Yeah, because I'm so good at talking to people nowadays." He tugs at his hair again, this time a little harder before sighing. "I've just found out my sister's pregnant and I haven't even said congratulations."

She laughs and shrugs. "Can't be much of a celebration without alcohol, can it? And like I said -- there's plenty of time for congratulatory presents later on." Harry rolls his eyes fondly as she winks at him. "You're more important to me right now."

When the adoption papers went through and they were just playing the waiting game for a good fit, nothing was more important to him than that. He vividly remembers Niall going through a hard break up and coming to them for shelter and comfort and all he could think was  _ I'm gonna be a dad, I'm gonna be a dad, I'm gonna be a dad. _ Gemma's always been a better person than him. 

"I'm doing alright," he tells her. "Today's got me all worked up, but normally I'm doing better than this."

She gives him a sad smile at that. He wonders if she believes him. After a moment, it's clear she doesn't. 

"I think . . . " she starts, sounding unsure. "I think you and Louis need to have a real go at things again. You two are made of steel, yeah? Can get through anything together. Not many people can do that."

He eyes here carefully. "What are you saying?" When she doesn't say anything for a moment, his heart stutters wildly. "If you think for a minute we're going to adopt another kid, you're wrong."

"That's not -- " she sighs, sitting up. "In the future, I think that should be up for debate, but not now. Maybe it's too soon. That's not what I was getting at, anyway. It's just -- if you continue to live your lives trying to close an open wound that's too big to heal, you'll never be happy again. Nobody's asking you to move on, H. We all know that isn't possible. But, maybe try and worry about other things."

"I don't understand."

"Go out on dates again," she says, exasperated. "Fetch dinner and go for a movie. Mess around a bit more, act like kids again. If I remember properly, and unfortunately I'll never be able to forget, you and Louis went at it all of the time.  _ All of the time, _ " she stresses, and Harry kicks at her shins under the table. "Be those people again. Be irresponsible again. You've got the money to go out and travel, so do it. Take some time off work."

He interrupts her there, although he does admit the rest sounds brilliant. "If I leave work for a few days, I won't go back. I know I won't."

"So wait for winter break," she agrees. "You and Louis got all that money from the school, and you've done nothing with it."

She's not wrong, although the whole money thing seems a little cheap to him. The initial murder trial closed quite quickly, per Harry's request. Their lawyer gave them two choices: fight to keep him in prison for the rest of his life, or avoid a trial all together by going forward with a plea bargain. Louis had wanted so badly to fight, to lock him up forever, but Harry couldn't do it. He couldn't withstand a trial, couldn't sit in a courtroom and watch that man describe what he did to her again. He'd begged Louis to help him avoid all that, had literally got down on his knees and begged, and Louis agreed to a plea deal because he wouldn't force Harry to go through that. 

Now, Harry wishes he had been strong enough. Twenty years without parole is still a hefty sentence, but they could've given him life easily. Harry was just too weak, and Louis has told him multiple times that he's not upset with him over it. 

After that ended and Harry wasn't needed in London anymore, he fucked off to Holmes Chapel while Louis stayed home to pursue a fight against the school. Harry signed the things Louis needed him to sign, did the things Louis asked, which included driving home to give a testimony, because Louis needed it. He needed to see someone scrabble in panic, to see someone properly punished. And the school deserved to be, anyways -- they knew what Harry looked like, and Louis, too; there's no reason she should've been released to someone who wasn't them. 

In the end, the school agreed to train their employees more thoroughly and strengthen their security system. On top of that, they awarded the Tomlinson family a settlement of 1.5 million dollars for emotional distress and because they were liable, not to mention the fact that if Louis had rejected their offer, the media would've sank their teeth into it and the school wanted to avoid any more bad publicity. He supposes he never knew how much money the school he was working for stuffed in the back of their pockets in case something went wrong. Feels a bit dirty, if he’s honest. Like the possibility of a child being harmed from their neglect was not an if, but when.

It brings Harry great comfort that, if they don't do any stupid, they'll be sitting pretty well for the rest of their lives. But that doesn't mean he wants to spend the school's dirty money unless he has to.

"Today has been proper shit," Harry mumbles, sitting back in his chair. First the thing with Eli, then his little breakdown in the car, and now finding out Gemma's pregnant. Not to mention the fact that when Louis gets home, they're going to have a talk that Harry's not going to like very much, and then it's going to be a bit tense for the rest of the night. "Just throw the whole day away."

Gemma laughs, not unkindly. Sympathetic, mostly. Pitying. "Maybe tomorrow will be better."

" _ Tomorrow _ everyone's going to be talking about it again and I'm going to be anxious all day," Harry denies. He sighs. How can he be mad when people pity him when he throws a pity-party for himself every second he can get?

"But then you get to go home to your husband, who loves you dearly," Gemma reminds softly. "You'll always have him. And me, and Mum, and Dad, and Robin -- who, by the way, you really need to call. He misses you."

"I will, I will." He probably won't. He'll think about it, at least. That's what counts. His sister has a point, though. He does have people trying to support him, even if they don't know how and even if Harry doesn't want it. 

"You're always going to have him," she repeats, eyebrows drawn.

Harry frowns. "I know that."

"Good," she replies. "Sometimes I feel like you two forget."

"We don't," Harry says, defensive. He and Louis are strong, always have been. Even when one of them is acting weak, their bond stays strong. At their most distant phases, or when they can't seem to stop arguing, they're still there for one another.

Harry knows Louis will always be there. He nervously wonders if Gemma's got the feeling Louis doesn't think the same about Harry. 

Her phone lights up and she glances at the screen. Whatever she sees makes her roll her eyes and turn the screen off once more before looking back to Harry. "I've got to get you back," she says. "Josh is insistent on being early to this doctor's appointment."

That makes Harry feel slightly less anxious about this whole Josh situation, but reminds him once more than his sister is pregnant. In only a handful of months, she will have a child and it'll be a constant reminder than he doesn't anymore. That Isabella is gone, that she's not coming back. He selfishly wonders if Gemma could be as good a parent as he once was, and immediately is ashamed of himself for it. 

"Will you drive me back to the school so I can get my car?" he asks, standing. He pulls out his wallet and places the tip money on the table. 

She stands, too, and again, her hand immediately goes to her stomach. She's not even showing yet. There's nothing to cradle, nothing to feel. He wishes she'd stop doing that. 

"Louis wants me to take you home myself," she tells him. "And I'm not going to deal with an angry Louis, so that's exactly what I'm going to do."

"I can drive myself home." Harry scoffs. "I've been driving since I was sixteen, I think I can manage." He knows that Gemma is only trying to listen to Louis, and he's not really mad at either of them. It just seems a bit silly.

"How many times do I have to tell you he's worried about you?" Gemma snaps, shaking her head. "He probably realizes you can manage it, too. He's not dense, you know. He's just. . . worried."

Harry rolls his eyes. "He thinks I'm weak," he corrects, but then instantly shakes his head. "God, ignore me. I don't know why I'm being such a dick."

"You can't possibly think that."

He chews on his lip, wondering how much he should let her see. He decides that she's going to bring this up to Louis either way, and it might help if they both understand him a little better. "He doesn't think I'm weak," he murmurs, shrugging. "But I am, aren't I? And if I'm not weak, I mean, like. . . I'm undeniably the weaker one. Of the two of us, I mean. Of Louis and me."

"You're just more sensitive, love," she says softly.

Harry flinches, hurt. "So you agree with me?"

"No, Haz. No, I just -- " she reaches forward and squeezes his arm. "You're more open with your emotions, is all. You can't help it. You two are feeling the same exact things and handling it two different ways. You needed time, and he needed as much of his normal life he could get back. It's why he went back to work so quickly, and why you couldn't." She must realize she's rambling because she stops herself and smiles lightly. "You're two different people; of course you're going to cope differently. There's no right or wrong way to do it. The only thing you two can do is make sure that no matter what, you continue to love each other and help each other through it."

It doesn't sound awfully convincing, and Harry's still not sure if she actually believes what she's saying or not, so he drops it. He's going to have to deal with this conversation on a larger scale with Louis; there's no point in doing it twice. Gemma has to leave, anyway, because she's bloody pregnant. 

He shrugs, she sighs, and they leave in silence. 

-

Louis gets home about an hour before he normally does, and Harry is wandering around the kitchen making dinner when he hears the door open. He glances at the clock before deciding to allow Louis to come find him. The dogs go running, and Harry quietly continues to chop vegetables for the salad he's currently making. 

It doesn't take long for Louis to find him in the kitchen. Harry winces; he doesn't want to have this conversation at all, and he knows Louis won't drop it as easily as Gemma did. He gives Louis a brief smile after setting the knife down on the cutting board. Louis crosses the kitchen, a semi-serious expression on his face that gets muddled with his obvious exhaustion, and grips his shoulders firmly. 

Harry hunches forward slightly on pure instinct. "Hey," he murmurs quietly. Harry's hands find Louis' waist and he pulls him closer. "You're home early."

"Not as many people dying tonight than usual, I guess," Louis mumbles. By the way his eyebrow twitches and his fingers dig into Harry's shoulder, Louis' about to say something else, but decides against it. Instead, he sets his forehead on Harry's shoulder and sighs. "I'm so tired. Dunno why. Got six hours of sleep last night and everything."

Harry snorts. "Still two hours short there, love."

"You didn't come to bed 'till eleven," Louis replies, small. "I don't like going to sleep without you at least in the same room."

Harry moves to run a hand down Louis' back. He should maybe apologize for keeping him up, or tell him to go lay down for a little while. But he was awake because he was finalizing progress reports and Louis will tell him he has to shower first, so really, there's no point in saying anything.

They stay like that, close, until Louis clears his throat. "How's Gemma?"

"Pregnant, apparently," Harry replies coldly, before he can even really process it. The hand still left on Louis' waist squeezes him gently as an apology. "I get why you didn't want to tell me. Both of you. I'm not mad."

"She's still early," Louis grumbles, "and aren't you supposed to wait? 'Til, like, the second trimester or something to go around telling people?" He makes an angry sound, a mix of a scoff and a sigh. "I told her not to tell you, fucking hell."

"She held her belly," he explains softly. "She didn't do it intentionally. Parental instincts and all that, yeah? We know a thing or two about that."

"Don't," Louis says immediately. "I can't talk about Iz today. Not on top of you fuckin' breaking down on me earlier, and now Gemma. . . we can only handle one thing at a time."

That's fair. Both of them have their fair share of days where Isabella is a blacklisted topic, although usually they're good at feeling out the other one's emotions and it doesn't need to be verbalized. Harry must've been too caught up in his own shit to notice. Again, he squeezes Louis' hip. 

"Sorry."

"Don't be."

After that, Louis pulls away, mumbling something about a shower and that he'll be out quickly. Harry goes back to cutting cucumber, and when he hears the shower turn on, he feels a foreign sense of relief. 

By some miracle, Harry manages to convince Louis to leave the topic of him blaming himself for Izzy's death alone  _ for now _ . The for now part was tacked on by Louis with a serious expression, and Harry's still got that shadow of dread following him everywhere he goes, but it's okay because  _ for now _ means  _ not right now. _

They curl up together on the sofa once Louis' out of the shower and they've both eaten dinner. Harry's spread out, taking up most of the room, while Louis is sprawled across him, Louis' head on Harry's chest. Lady is by their feet, while Clifford and Bruce choose to lay on the other couch, away from everyone else.

Harry wants to watch something they haven't seen before, but Louis is nearly asleep against his chest and it wouldn't be right to try and keep him awake. Louis works too hard for someone who has enough money to potentially not work for the rest of their life, Harry realizes, his conversation with Gemma earlier sitting heavily on the back of his brain. 

At the realization, he frowns, and the fingers that are carding through Louis' hair stop. Louis doesn't need to work, yet he works all day, five days a week. He works later sometimes, later than he's scheduled to, and there has been a few times where Louis had worked himself so ragged that Zayn didn't trust him to take himself home safely, so he drove him instead. 

The fact that Louis showers straight away after he gets home pops up to the forefront of his thoughts, too, but Harry quickly stops that line of thinking. He knows Louis would never, ever cheat on him. Not only would he not do that to Harry, but he's simply not that kind of person. If Louis Tomlinson was unhappy enough in a situation to cheat, Louis Tomlinson wouldn't be in the situation any longer. It's just how he is. 

After a long minute of Harry thinking, Louis wiggles around slightly, breaking him from his thoughts. Louis adjusts his head to a new place on Harry's chest, and then he quietly whines at Harry for stopping petting at his hair, so Harry chuckles softly and starts up again, the lump in his throat not loosening any. 

-

The next day, he's woken up to small kisses being planted gently on his jaw. At first, he thinks it's the remnants of a forgotten dream fading away, but then he hears a small sigh followed by someone quietly saying his name. In response, Harry mumbles something incoherent and rolls over onto his stomach. When he hears a small laugh and hands start to rub at his shoulder blades, Harry finally realizes that Louis' just waking him up to start their day together. 

"I'm tired," Harry mumbles. It's true; exhaustion is weighing him down heavily, because Louis was horny last night and wouldn't stop pestering him about it. Never the one to reject the offer of sex, Harry easily succumbed to Louis' efforts and they went at it for a good forty-five minutes passed their usual bedtime. 

"I know, 's why I was being patient with you," Louis replies, his fingers working at a knot in Harry's right shoulder. It's tempting Harry to go back to sleep. "Wanted to just kick you in the balls, if I'm honest."

Harry cracks an eye open at that, even if Louis can't see it. "That'd certainly do the trick."

"Yeah, it would, wouldn't it? Too bad I didn't get to test it out."

Louis massages his back for a few more minutes while Harry drifts between sleep and consciousness, and then he's telling him they have to get up and Harry begrudgingly pulls himself out of bed. 

They both get dressed, Louis in his scrubs and Harry in casual wear because it's Friday and staff aren't required to get all dressed up, and once Harry's slipped his socks on, he looks up to see Louis eyeing him warily in the mirror. As soon as Louis' been caught, he goes back to looking at himself in the mirror like he was doing it all along. 

Harry decides not to press it, because it's five-thirty in the morning and it's too early to fight. He goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth and do his hair alone while Louis goes downstairs to start up breakfast and let the dogs out. 

Before he wanders downstairs to join Louis for breakfast, he checks his phone to see he has a few unread texts. One's from Gemma that says  _ the appointment went alright, thanks for asking  _ and Harry rolls his eyes. She doesn't ever stop treating him like her little brother. His mum's text from yesterday that he ignored is a simple  _ call me?  _ and there's a text from Zayn, which strikes him as the most interesting. It's a simple invitation for Louis and him to join Liam, Niall and himself out for a pint this Sunday, but normally those types of things go through Louis. Nobody's in a rush to talk to Harry anymore.

As he types out a message to his mum, he realizes that the only reason he's texting her back is because he's got the feeling Louis' upset for some reason, and he's stalling. That's not fair on Anne, so he deletes what he typed out and shoves his phone in the back pocket of his jeans before going downstairs. 

Louis' sitting down at the table, tapping at his phone with a plate of waffles in front of him and Harry's plate on the table next to him. Bruce is by his feet, and he picks his head up at the sight of Harry. Louis glances up. 

"Oh, hey," he says, putting his phone down on the table. Harry takes that as a good sign; whatever he's upset about, it's not enough to make him ignore Harry. "I made waffles."

Harry nods before going over and planting a kiss on Louis' forehead. He takes his seat next to Louis, and as soon as he gets settled in and comfortable, the silence becomes deafening. 

"Okay," Harry says slowly, feeling awkward. Louis' typically forward with his emotions, unless he feels like Harry can't take it. But even then, Louis usually finds a roundabout way to bring whatever's bothering him to Harry's attention. "You seem upset."

Louis stills, and then smooths out his features. Harry squints at him, knowing exactly how to read Louis. "So it's bad?" he assumes. He won't let himself feel anything about this except slight annoyance; sometimes, he feels too much, and other times, not enough. This is going to be one of those times until Louis tells him. 

"Not before work, please," Louis murmurs. He looks desperate. 

"Is it about us?"

"No, we're good." Louis pauses for a moment, and stares at him quizzically. "We're good, right?"

"I think so," Harry replies, furrowing his eyebrows. 

Louis hums and takes a sip of his tea. "Just making sure."

The possibility of them not being in a good place makes Harry's stomach go queasy, so he quiets down and forgets about what they were initially discussing. He's halfway finished with his breakfast when it grabs his attention again. 

"Wait, you changed the subject," Harry says, realizing it as he says it. "What's wrong?"

Louis sits back in his chair. It's clear he thought he successfully pushed the topic away. "Not before work, love," Louis says quietly, giving him one of those smiles that are given only to make Harry feel safe. It doesn't work -- they used to, when Harry didn't realize they weren't genuine, but not anymore. 

"Lou -- "

"I don't want you having another shit day," Louis explains, insistent. He reaches forward to grab Harry's hand and squeezes it once. "Try not to worry about it, okay? I don't even know all the details yet. Let me figure some stuff out and we'll talk about it tonight."

Harry nods and looks down at his lap. He feels scolded, for some reason. Talked down to. He sighs. "I'm sorry you have to coddle me all the time."

"Don't you dare start that again," Louis snaps, frustrated. Harry glances at him, doe-eyed, when Louis grabs his jaw firmly. He looks dangerously territorial. "I don't  _ baby _ you, I'm _ protective _ of you. There's a difference, and there's nothing wrong with it."

Harry snorts, feeling awfully self-deprecating again. It's hard to, though, when Louis' hand is warm on his face. "I constantly need you to get me back on track. I need you to do everything for me."

"And I'll do it every single time," Louis says softly, stroking Harry's jaw with his thumb. "You aren't a burden, baby. You're my husband. You're the father of my child."

"I don't pull my weight anymore," Harry argues. His eyes are burning with brewing tears, and this is what he meant yesterday: he is the weaker one of them. It hasn't bothered him as much as it has these last few days in a long time. 

"You don't shut me out, you're honest with me, you love me," Louis lists, furrowing his eyebrows. "You love me so much, H. You treat me so well. That's all I need from you." He smiles, and this one reaches his eyes. "We've both been in a good place for a while now. One bad day on your part doesn't ruin that."

That manages to sink in a little bit, so Harry nods and decides to drop it. He loops his fingers around Louis' wrist, feeling his pulse. It soothes him, for some reason. "Whatever the matter is, just. . . how bad is it?"

Louis doesn't reply for a long moment, avoiding eye contact the entire time. He clears his throat. The noise makes Harry jump slightly. 

"I don't know," Louis replies finally. He stands, and at first Harry thinks he's going to leave it at that, but then he comes to wrap his arms around Harry's shoulder and places his head atop of Harry's. Like always, Harry's hand finds Louis' waist. At his point, he's not sure if it's to steady Louis or himself. "It's not about me, though," Louis continues. "Or you, it's not anything you did. So try not to stress about it too much. I promise you, we'll talk about it tonight."

Harry nods, strengthening his hold on Louis. By the sounds of it, no matter what it is, he'll still have him. 

Class is almost completely normal, and Harry almost wishes it wasn't. 

He fully braced himself for glares and stares, for awkward whispering or more invasive questions. When Louis dropped him off for work since Harry's car was still at school, Louis promised him it wouldn't be terrible, and maybe Harry should've had more faith in him. It truly seems like nobody gives a fuck about what happened yesterday. 

Maybe it had seemed more dramatic in Harry's head because Eli was jabbing at fresh wounds. Nobody but him and Louis lost Izzy as a child, so nobody else is going to be hurt as deeply by things regarding her and he shouldn't expect them to be. Or maybe people realize that Eli's just a dick, so nothing he is involved in should be taken too seriously.

Either way, nobody really acts any different around him. Samantha and Nicole still come to his classroom to eat their lunch, and Harry pays extra attention to their conversations to make sure it's not about him. It's not; Nicole's boyfriend cheated on her, and that's the only thing they discuss. Nobody acts any more interested in him, or any less. Everything's fine, and Louis was right -- one off day doesn't ruin any of the progress he's made. 

After school, after checking some emails, he gets a text from Gemma.  _ Did you know the baby's the size of a blueberry? Seven weeks old and there's barely anything to prove. a bloody blueberry.  _

He knows what she's doing -- making light of the situation solely to bring it up to Harry's attention. She's subtly checking if Harry's mad at her. And he is, but he knows he has no right to be, so he texts back a fake-happy  _ pretty sure the baby's the size of a banana at twenty weeks _ . He vividly remembers Louis' amusement when they looked that up with their surrogate. 

Gemma's reply is almost instant.  _ i don't know who runs these sites, but i'd rather not think of my baby in terms of food. _

He doesn't respond to that one, done playing nice. He has seven whole months to come to terms with this, and he isn't going to start now. He doesn't have to. When she starts showing, he'll force himself to get over it. Until then, he's going to feel sick by his sister saying  _ my baby _ and not feel bad about it.

-

Louis comes home early from work early again, looking stressed and anxious. Harry's sitting at the kitchen table grading some papers. They're sprawled out everywhere on the table, and usually he'd have them put away by the time Louis is due to be home, but it's just past four and Louis didn't forewarn him that he was getting in early. Harry glances at him hesitantly, unsure of how to comfort Louis when he doesn't know what's wrong, and Louis shakes his head and sits down next to him at the table. 

"Keep doing what you're doing," Louis says tiredly. He leans down to rest his head on his folded arms, staring at the paper in front of Harry. 

Harry frowns and puts his hand on Louis' back. "You looked stressed. What's wrong?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Louis mumbles, closing his eyes. "Been talking about it all fucking day."

"Okay," Harry agrees easily. He'd be a hypocrite, wouldn't he, if he pressed Louis to talk about this when Harry constantly avoids subjects he doesn't want to talk about himself. He rubs at Louis' back before pulling away. "Okay," he repeats. "Just, like. I'm here, you know? I'd listen, if you did want to talk about it."

"I know you would," Louis says, and he's smiling a little. "Just keep doing your work. We'll talk about it later."

Later comes after dinner. They're sitting on the sofa together, Louis' legs draped over Harry's lap, Harry's hand around Louis' ankle. They're in the middle of an episode of  _ Seinfeld _ when Louis sighs abruptly and just says it. 

"Jackson Shaw killed someone in prison yesterday."

The first emotion that registers is anger; Harry hasn't had that name said out loud around him in a long time, because he doesn't want it said to him, ever. He doesn't get to have a name in Harry's head. He's just a monster, not a person. He doesn't deserve a fucking name. 

Harry's hand tightens around Louis' ankle reflexively, and he looks at him, unable to find words. 

Louis closes his eyes and runs a shaking hand over his face. "Stabbed him to death, I guess. With some makeshift prison shiv, I don't -- " he lets out a long sigh and reopens his eyes, sets his cheek on his hand, his elbow against the couch's arm. "The warden called me to let me know yesterday. I don't know if he was supposed to, but he did."

"Why," he pauses, his voice strained. He clears his throat. "Why'd he call you? I mean, why not me?"

Louis shrugs. He's exhausted. This has been gnawing on him for over a day, probably. "Maybe 'cause I was involved more in the case, but I don't know. Doesn't matter though, does it?"

Harry shakes his head. It doesn't. The only thing he can focus on is that name ringing in his head.

"I'm sorry," Louis says. "I didn't mean to tell you like that. I just didn't know when to do it."

"It's okay."

"You look like you could faint right about now," Louis tells him, and Harry shakes his head. He's not going to faint.

"It's just shocking, is all."

Louis scoffs. "No, it's not. He killed her, why wouldn't he kill another person? What's shocking about that?"

"Nothing," Harry says. Both of them sound so detached from themselves, from reality. Harry hates it, but he's pretty sure this is the only way a conversation like this can go. "You're right. I don't know why I said that."

Louis clears his throat and sits up, and as soon as he's not touching Louis anymore, Harry sits up too, needing to be near him. Louis gives him a tired smile and grabs Harry's hand. "The courts are going to charge him with another murder, obviously. And, like. It'll be a hefty one. Apparently killing another criminal is worse than killing a defenseless child."

It hurts, those words. They feel like a cold fist wrapped around Harry's heart, and he has to take a deep breath and look off to the side. He'd be in longer if Harry didn't beg Louis to let their lawyers offer him a plea deal. Harry will never, ever forgive himself for it, even if he doesn't regret it. He couldn't withstand it at the time, but knowing that doesn't make it any easier. 

"Hey, no, not what I meant," Louis says, scooting closer and wrapping his arms around Harry. He sets his head on the back of Harry's shoulder, and Harry grips his knee. "I just think our criminal justice system is fucked, is all. Wasn't saying about you, promise." He presses a kiss to Harry's back and squeezes his middle. 

"Yeah, well." Harry clears his throat again and looks down. "We already knew that."

He wishes he could forget seeing her in the morgue. He hates remembering her like that so, so much.

"I waited so long to tell you because I was trying to figure out if we could go to his sentencing, if. . . if that's something we wanted to do."

Harry closes his eyes. No, it's not.

Louis presses another kiss to his back, just below the last one. "We can. We can go. If we wanted to."

"You want to," Harry says, and it sounds a little choked. "You could really do that?"

"Could I really go watch the man who killed our daughter get life in prison and be dragged away in handcuffs?" Louis asks, malice dripping in his voice. "Yeah, I could. I want to. And you don't have to come, I won't blame you at all, but I want to go."

Harry's bottom lip wobbles. He catches it with his teeth. "They'd talk about her," he whispers. His insides feel like they're trembling. "They'd -- they'd talk about Izzy. I don't know if I can take hearing her death being talked about like that, like -- like all she is is part of his background."

"You don't have to go," Louis says, and he's being gentle with him again. "I can just tell you what happens, or -- or not. If you don't want to know." 

A small cry escapes him, and Louis immediately shushes him and hugs him as hard as he can. "Please don't cry," Louis whispers, rocking him back and forth slightly. "You don't have to decide right now. He's getting arraigned next week, okay? Next Thursday. You have time to decide. And I'm completely okay with whatever you want to do." He sounds less convincing when he says, "I'll even -- if you don't want me going, I won't. Seriously. If you don't want me there, I won't be there. Just tell me."

It takes a second for Harry to be able to get anything out, and when he does, the words are crumbling and half of them die in his throat. "No," he says. "It's -- if you want to, it's okay. It's -- you need to do that, for yourself. Don't let me stop you from doing that."

"Okay," Louis whispers, "alright. We can stop talking about it for right now. Try not to get too overwhelmed about this, okay? Everything's still the same."

Harry nods shakily, leaning back into Louis. He does his best at shutting his brain off, because right now, he doesn't have the energy to handle this. Not on top of Gemma's pregnancy and what happened at school the other day. It's too much all at once. 

-

The following day, everything feels wrong. He has half a mind to check if he's in the right classroom, because everything feels so oddly off that it doesn't feel like his. It is, he knows it is, it's just -- he can't stop thinking about everything that happened. Revisiting the memory of when he found out she was missing, of when he found out she was dead, of seeing Louis for the first time after they learned what was happening, of being questioned, of seeing her dead, cold body. Of having to tell his mum. 

At the police station, he was acting erratic. Their lawyer kept telling him to calm down, but every time the police officer asked him another question, he got so fucking angry and he couldn't believe what he was hearing. 

"My husband's out there, freaking the fuck out because we just lost our child, and you want to  _ question _ me?" he snapped, glaring. "I need to be out there comforting him, we should have time to fucking grieve and figure out what the fuck we do next, not -- "

"Stop talking," his lawyer hissed. 

He knows he has no business teaching a class when his mind feels like it's not in his body, so he turns on a movie and gives them a worksheet and sits at his desk doing absolutely nothing but staring at his computer wallpaper -- she's on the swings, she looks so happy, so, so fucking happy -- the entire day. 

At lunch, when he feels shaky and sick to his stomach, he questions if he should be at school right now. He knows he shouldn't be when he recoils from his desk when the phone rings. 

After school, Mrs. Murphy from the English department drops by his classroom to ask if he's okay. She's not even discreet about it; she knocks, comes in, gives him a kind smile and asks how he's doing. 

"I'm alright," he says. "How are you?"

"My students were talking about what happened a few days ago," she starts. "About one of your students asking about your daughter. I -- "

"It's fine," he interrupts, because if he hears one more stranger talking about Isabella like they know anything, he might actually lose it. 

She frowns in a pitying kind of way. "I just wanted to drop by and apologize."

"For what?"

He should stop. He really should. 

She falters. "For your loss, I suppose. The other staff, we all want you to know that we're sorry, and none of us can imagine being in your situation. If -- "

He narrows his eyes, and instantly, she knows she's made a mistake. "You lot talk about it, then? Just like the students do? Isn't that what you're here to talk about, how immature it is for the kids to talk about it?"

"Harry, that's not -- "

"I just think it's inappropriate to gossip about each other's kids, is all," he says shortly. "Dead or alive. Don't you think?"

She leaves soon after that, with a chagrined look on her face, and as she walks out of his classroom, he immediately regrets saying that, saying any of it. He shouldn't have. She didn't do anything wrong. He's just stressed, and having an off day, and that’s not Mrs. Murphy's fault. And now he's either made her feel guilty or angry, and either way she's probably going to go talk about it with the staff tomorrow, which just worsens his situation. 

He'll drop by her classroom tomorrow morning to apologize with a muffin and coffee or something. Maybe he'll tell her that he's been having a rough time lately, or maybe he won't, because he doesn't want people to question his ability to do his job. He's almost certain that losing his job for being unprofessional is the last blow he could take before completely crumbling and never getting back up again. 

-

Harry makes the decision to see Jackson Shaw sentenced for the second time the morning of, as he watches Louis straighten out his collar in front of the mirror. He called in sick the night before, knowing that he'd be too emotional to handle work today, but what's the point of laying around at home when he can go with Louis? He wants that son of a bitch to see that, despite taking her, he didn't take everything from them. They still have each other. He didn't fucking win.

"Lou," Harry says softly, sitting up in bed. Louis looks startled; Harry was pretending to be asleep. "I want to go." Louis looks startled again, but for a completely different reason. 

"It's okay if you don't," Louis says. He turns to look at Harry properly.

"I want to."

Louis doesn't look convinced. "You didn't want to last night? Just, what changed? Because I don't want you to feel pressured in going."

"I don't know how to explain it, Louis," Harry says, standing up. "I just need to go."

-

Seeing his face again is one of the hardest things Harry's ever had to do. It's gotten distorted over time, the image his brain created of seeing Jackson Shaw murder their daughter, and now that he's looking at him again, that image is back and sharper than ever. 

When Jackson Shaw is brought out, Harry wants to scream. He wants to yell and shout and cry, and his knees want to buckle and his stomach wants to flip painfully and his heart wants to explode. Harry manages to keep that all hidden under the sharpest, meanest glare he can muster -- and believe him, he has enough hatred for that man for it to be a menacing look.

Louis and Harry are standing when he comes in, hands intertwined tightly between them, and Harry's not expecting him to look at them. He's not expecting it, because that'd be too dramatic, wouldn't it? Why would a criminal care who was there for his sentencing? But Jackson Shaw does look at them. Briefly, and mostly at Louis, but he does look at them. 

There's no look of regret or guilt, but he does immediately look down at the ground when he connects eyes with Louis, and there wasn't indifference behind it. Louis looking at him made him uncomfortable, he recognized them, and that’s enough for Harry to get the sick satisfaction he came here looking for. 

They read out his crimes, and of course that involves Isabella. He wasn't sure if they'd say her name or not since she was a child, but they do, and Harry's oddly relieved by it. He wants everyone to know her name; the bailiff, the lawyers, the judge. Jackson Shaw, if he forgot it. 

Isabella Tomlinson. Five years old. Kidnapped. Bludgeoned to death with a crowbar. 

The last few details make Harry's relief disappear almost immediately, and he tries to grasp onto the thought that everyone just had Isabella's name floating around their heads, even if only for a moment. 

The entire time, Louis is comforting him in tiny, subtle ways: never letting go of his hand, bumping their knees together, fitting his foot next to Harry's, kissing his shoulder, running his thumb over his knuckles. And Harry already knew it, but it's proof that Jackson Shaw didn't take everything from them; and no, Jackson Shaw doesn't see any of the little touches, but maybe, Harry thinks. Maybe he saw one, and maybe it felt like a punch in the gut.

Maybe. Who knows. 

Judging by the victorious shouting and loud clapping when Jackson Shaw is given life in prison without parole, the victim's family is here. They jump up and they clap, and both Harry and Louis immediately stand too, like their bodies were waiting to get permission to do the same. They clap, but they don't cheer. Not outwardly. Louis does murmur, "You son of a bitch," under his breath, though. 

Jackson Shaw is taken away in handcuffs by three policemen, and Harry stares him down until the door is shut behind him. 

Once he's gone, Harry lets out a quiet breath, like he was holding it in. 

_ Now what?  _ both Louis and Harry are thinking, numb and blankly staring forward. It all feels a bit anticlimactic, even though they got what they wanted. 

An older woman with tears on her dark cheeks comes toward them, and she's clutching onto her necklace. Probably a rosary. "Did you know Ben?" she asks, and her voice shakes. So does her hand. 

They're still seated, and Louis stares up at them with a confused look, like he forgot what words are. 

"Benjamin," the woman repeats. "Did you know him? You clapped. I thought. . . I thought maybe you knew him."

She looks heartbroken, probably crushed to lose a new detail about this Benjamin's life. She is probably his mother. Harry knows what it feels like to cling onto new discoveries. When Louis and Harry went to the school to get every last thing Isabella had in her desk and cubby, they sat down with the teacher for two hours to listen to any stories she had of Izzy. 

"Why were you clapping then?" she asks, almost demanding. Her hand shakes from where it's clinging to the cross on her neck.

"Our daughter -- "

It takes Harry half a second to realize it came from his own throat and not Louis', and he takes a deep breath before finishing. "Our daughter was murdered by him. A little over four years ago."

She presses a hand to her chest, over her heart. "That little baby? She was yours?"

Harry and Louis nod. 

"She was only five," Louis whispers. He says he can’t help himself. "Wasn't even in first grade yet."

"Oh, Lord." She shakes her head and presses his lips together tightly. "Ben lived a life. He was fifty. He -- he had his run. He got to play his hand, and it wound him up in prison, but yours -- " she shakes her head again. "Your baby was just that: a  _ baby. _ "

Another woman comes up to them, this one younger, and she wraps her arm around the older woman's shoulder. "What are you doing, Mom?" she asks quietly, clearly trying not to be rude. "We have to get going."

"These folks are that baby's parents, the one that got killed. That's why he was in prison."

Harry's heart nearly stops when he realizes that they're partially responsible for whoever this Ben person is got killed. Jackson Shaw wouldn't have been in prison if Louis and Harry didn't put him there. 

No, Harry tells himself. Jackson Shaw wouldn't have been in prison if he hadn't killed an innocent little girl.

"Oh," the daughter says. "I'm so sorry. Her name was Isabelle?"

"Isabella," Harry and Louis correct immediately, equally fervently. 

"Isabella," the daughter echoes, giving them a gentle look. 

Louis nods, his fingers tightening on Harry's. "Isabella Grace. She was -- she was just a little girl."

Louis' aching to talk about her. Harry gets that way sometimes, too. They'll probably talk about her the entire way home, and it'll be hard, but they'll try to focus on the positives. 

"Could you show us a picture?" the daughter asks, still just as gentle, and in a way that clearly translates to,  _ Would you like to show us a picture? _

Harry finds himself reaching for his phone instantly anyway. 

-

-

Zayn and Liam adopt their second child, a three year old girl named Angela from Cuba, one month after Gemma has her baby boy. 

And no, Harry's not bitter, but they could've waited a little longer after Gemma's birth. They really could have. They were waiting for so long because of their reluctance to hurt Harry and Louis, and that hesitance suddenly disappeared a month into Harry's struggle in coping with his sister having her own child. It's a boy. 

He's not bitter. 

He is, however, happy that Louis seems to be feeling the same way. Louis doesn't admit to it, but he does make a few casual remarks to Harry about it, and once to Zayn. 

"What?" Louis said, holding Angela in his arms. She's a people person, apparently, and any fears that Zayn and Liam initially had about her not adjusting well are gone. "Gemma give you baby fever or something?"

Zayn gave him a look. "We've been trying to adopt Angie for months."

"Gemma's been pregnant for months," Louis points out. 

"Lou -- " he sighed and shook his head. "Don't give me shit for this."

Louis smiled at him and kissed Angela’s head. "Now why would I do that?"

Harry doesn't give anyone any shit. He doesn't tell Gemma that his heart throbs painfully whenever he's holding her son Patrick in his arms, and he doesn't tell Liam that he desperately wishes they would have adopted a child a little older or younger. Three feels too close to five. Liam even asks him if they hate them, and Harry tells him as honestly as he can that no, they don't. 

Every time he look at either Angela or Patrick, a rushed hum of  _ it’s been five years already, it’s been five years already, it’s been five years already. _ Five whole years since she was ripped away from them. 

Even though it hurts, Harry constantly visits Gemma and Patrick. Almost every day, even when he can see that Gemma just wants to be lying in bed and not entertaining guests. He only stays for about an hour each time. Usually, he just sits in his nursery and holds him. That what he misses most, holding her. Obviously it's not the same with Patrick as it was with her, but if he closes his eyes and wishes hard enough, it feels like it could be. 

All his baby-visits are concerning Louis and Gemma, but Harry doesn't care. If Gemma seriously asked him to stop coming, he would, but she hasn't.

When Patrick is about two months old, Gemma calls him, exhausted. 

"He won't stop crying for some reason," she says. "I'm sure he's just tired and won't let himself settle down enough to sleep, but would -- it's just, it's been, like, an hour. He won't stop. Would you please come over to see if you can get him to quiet down? I'm starting to get worried about him."

Harry drives over so fast he barely remembers the car ride, and then he's holding a wailing Patrick and shushing him and petting his short hair and cradling him to his chest. Patrick settles down after a few minutes, and as soon as Patrick's tears stop, Harry's start, and he stares at the star-stickered ceiling wordlessly, trying to keep his chest even so he doesn't disturb the baby. Gemma comes over and kisses his temple, and she whispers a quiet thank you against his ear. 

After a while, the tears are too demanding and Harry has to place Patrick in his crib so he doesn't wake him. He allows Gemma to guide him to the living room, and he cries into his hands as she rubs his back. 

"I miss her so much, Gemma. So, so much."

"I know you do, sweetheart."

"I don't think it'll ever stop hurting so much."

Gemma must agree with him, because she doesn't say anything, just kisses the back of his head and hugs him. 

He convinces her not to tell Louis about his little cry, and he regrets it later on, when Louis is home and they're cooking together. Harry is telling him how he got Patrick to settle down, and Louis hums and says, "All this Patty talk makes me think you want another baby."

Immediately, Harry grips onto the counter top and lets out a pained breath. 

"No, no," Louis says quickly, coming over and hugging him from behind. "Was just a joke, promise. I know we aren't ready for another kid, love. I know we aren't. Neither of us are."

"But what if I want one?" Harry chokes out, and his knees genuinely give out. Louis follows him to the ground and plasters himself to Harry's back, whispering quietly into Harry's ear. 

"What?" he keeps asking. "What did you say?"

And Harry can't tell if he's asking because he's angry or because he's hopeful, so Harry doesn't say anything and just cries. He can't believe he said it out loud. He barely even lets himself think it, and when he does, it’s in bits and pieces and always comes with pounds and pounds with guilt. 

He doesn't want to replace Izzy. That's not what he wants. But he can't help in feeling like getting another child would be doing that. He wants this cold, festering hole in his heart to be filled, and he feels terrible for it. 

"What did you say?" Louis keeps repeating. He doesn't stop until he starts getting worried about Harry because Harry's mind is somewhere else and he feels breathless. He helps Harry to bed and tucks him in, and he brings Harry food that he doesn't even think about eating, because how dare he say that. How dare he even think that. 

Izzy is their only child, and she always will be. She has to be. Harry can't imagine loving another child without feeling guilty. 

-

-

They manage to bury that desire for about two more years, and they reach a point not at which adopting another child is hurting them rather than protecting them. 

There are days where Harry brings up the idea and Louis is the one prickly about it, and vice versa. It's like they're both letting the other indulge in the feeling just for a little before checking them with a reminder why it can't happen. It creates resentment between the two of them, even though they're both painfully aware that they both want a child and are just too scared to admit it all the time. 

They seriously start talking about it -- planning, almost -- in December. They're still recovering from the weight of the anniversary, and they're achingly lonely. It's hard, accepting that, but they are. They're lonely. They love each other like mad, but that doesn't mean they can't be lonely. Seven years ago, they had a loud, bubbly, loving five-year-old consuming their lives and running around the house, and then she was torn from them. They still haven’t worked out how to live with that and not feel lonely, not ache for something that’ll give them the same feeling. 

They adopted a cat named Tucker over Christmas break, and there was no painful guilt that killed them like there was when they adopted Lady. They still are so, so sad that Isabella won't know him and Tucker won't know her, but they don't feel guilty for it. (As much as they did with Lady, anyway.) And if Harry's not mistaken, that's progress, and it gives them the confidence to start seriously talking about another adoption. 

When they do talk about it, they don't usually look at each other, and the conversation is always a bit stiff.

"Boy or girl?"

That's easy. "Boy."

Louis nods. "Older or younger?"

That's not so easy. That's -- Harry's not sure. He wants a baby, but he's not sure he can handle watching another kid outlive Isabella. If they're already older than five, maybe it'll be easier. "Maybe -- maybe older, for now," Harry says. "Like, seven or eight? And if we -- if we adopt another, we can try for a baby, if that's what we want."

There's a pause. "You want more than one?"

"We've always wanted more than one kid," Harry says, guilt tearing through his heart. This conversation will end soon, Harry can feel it, and they'll pick it back up tomorrow. "If we adopt this kid, we'll only have two. And since Izzy's not here anymore, the boy might feel lonely, or something. I don't know. But I want a couple, I think."

"Like three? Not including Iz, I mean."

That makes Harry flinch, but he doesn't comment on it. Izzy is dead. There's no point in trying to soften the blow anymore. "Three is fine."

"Okay. And are we going to tell them about Isabella?"

"Of course," Harry says, almost snapping. He turns to look at Louis, hurt.

"Of course," Louis echoes, nodding. "Obviously, I know that. I just wanted to make sure we're on the same page."

They stop talking about it after that for tonight, even though there's no point: they don't stop thinking about it. Both of them, the rest of the night, don't stop thinking about the idea of adopting another child into their household. Even thinking about it makes Harry feel dirty, though. Harry still visits her grave every Sunday (he stopped saying visiting _ her, _ because Louis admitted to him that it didn't seem very healthy to think of it like that), and he still hasn't told her about the possibility of them inviting another child into their home. If he can't tell her, maybe he shouldn't be doing it. 

And there are so many things to figure out. They have a spare bedroom, but if they adopt more children, where will they go? They'd probably have to move, eventually. They have the money to. But the idea of moving Izzy's belongings genuinely makes Harry lightheaded and he has to reach out for Louis to steady himself. And all the picture frames. . . would it be damaging to the other children to have someone hanging above them constantly, someone who is a stranger to them? 

He thinks that as he stares at the picture of the three of them just outside the bathroom. She's about three in this one; her hair is pulled into loose, low pigtails. Blue hair ties. Her bright green eyes lock into his, and for a startling second he thinks he's going to see betrayal in them, like that's even possible. He doesn't, though. She was always so pure. She didn't have a chance to make any mistakes. Her left hand is holding Harry's, her right hidden partially in Bruce's fur. Louis is sitting sprawled out on the picnic blanket, his legs in front of them. Izzy's friend's mum took this picture. Her name was Brandy, he's pretty sure. 

Louis catches him staring at the picture, and instead of frowning like Harry expects him to, he comes over and wraps his arm around Harry's waist and pulls him closer. 

"Wasn't this taken, like, five minutes before Izzy's friend shit his pants?"

It startles a laugh out of Harry. It sounds choked. He's crying, and he doesn't know when it started, but he's not exactly surprised. "I think so. God, Brandy and Shawn were mortified." He remembers it clearly, how hard Izzy laughed at her friend Peter when he had an accident. Brandy was a bit ticked off at her for laughing at him, and it  _ was  _ a bit rude, but Harry remembers having to stifle his laughs with Louis because Peter didn't seem the slightest bit concerned about anything. 

"Is it wrong that I can't picture us being like that with another kid?" Louis asks, quiet. "I mean, I think we would love them and take care of them well, but I don't. . . I can't imagine loving them as much as I love Izzy." He laughs, something insecure and small. "Does that make me sound like a terrible person?"

"No," Harry says softly. He feels the same way. "But we also didn't know how much we'd love Iz until she was ours. None of it felt real until she was in our arms. It'll be like that, I think."

"But what if it's too hard? What if we can't do it? We can't just give the kid back."

"Yeah, we can. And we should, if we think we'd be bad parents to them."

Louis says something else, but Harry can't quite hear it. Isabella's smile is so bright. She looks so happy. And Harry always reminds himself that her life was incredible until she died, and when he remembers how she was murdered, he has trouble believing that. She was terrified and in immense pain in her last few minutes. (God, he hopes it didn't last more than that.) Would she think it was worth it? He doesn't know. 

"I lost you," he hears Louis say gently, and Harry shakes his head. 

"No, I'm here. I just. . ." 

What if they have bad luck? What if adopting another kid gets them brutally murdered, too? He wouldn't be able to withstand them getting hurt. He couldn't. Louis would have to forgive him, he'd have to understand. 

"I want to go somewhere this summer," Louis says, right before bed. They're cuddled up, but they don't feel as close as they normally do, for some reason. Louis is speaking right into his ear, his head resting against Harry's. "Australia, or something. Maybe the east coast of America? Somewhere quiet."

Izzy never got to leave Europe. 

"Maybe Florida," Harry says, shutting his eyes. He nuzzles his cheek against Louis' arm. "Be with all those old people in retirement. . . I don't know."

He hears Louis smile. "Thought you would say no, if I'm honest."

Harry didn't even consider saying no. He doesn't feel like himself lately, ever since Patrick, but maybe that's not a bad thing. He can't tell. 'Himself' these past few years hasn't exactly been a happy version. 

"I'm tired," is all he says. 

"Sleep, then."

And Harry tries to. Right before his body gives into sleep, though, Harry's brain questions if this is them moving on, the very thing he promised her he'd never do. Grieving parents can't go to Florida. They can't get another child. They can't, right? That's not how it works.

"We're moving on without her," Harry says, too loud. He doesn't know if Louis is sleeping or not. "We're leaving her behind, Louis. We're -- "

"We're not moving on, we're moving forward," Louis says, pulling Harry closer to his chest. "Baby, we have to. It's time."

Harry would be angry with him, if it wasn't for the way his voice bleeds guilt and sadness. 

"It doesn't feel like it's time," Harry whispers. 

"It is," Louis says fiercely. "It is, Harry. You're meant to be a dad. You've wanted to be a dad your entire life. I'm not letting you let go of that."

"I  _ am _ a dad. We're  _ both _ still her dad."

"You can't tuck in someone dead," Louis says. It should sound cold, but it doesn't. It's. . . comforting, in a weird way. Therapeutic. "You can't wake me up with a flailing toddler in the morning like you used to do with someone who isn't here anymore. You can't cook with them on your shoulders, and you can't help them with their schoolwork like you loved doing, and you can't buy them new little shoes and jackets. She'll never grow out of the clothes hanging in her closet, H."

A sob builds in his chest and burns his throat. "I want to work with kids again," he says, and he doesn't know where it comes from. He's convinced himself that he likes teaching high school, and he does, it's just. "I miss them. They fucking idolized me, Lou. It felt so nice. I loved seeing their stupid, terrible art and hearing inappropriate stories about their parents and listening to them trying to figure out the world. I miss recess. I miss playtime. I miss feeling like a second parent to thirty kids, especially when I could tell they needed one."

"Then we'll figure that out, too," Louis tells him. "Maybe next year, maybe the year after that. We'll figure it out, babe."

And for the first time in a long, long time, it feels like they will. 

-

-

They go to Massachusetts that summer. 

Florida felt too superficial and more like a vacation than a necessary break in life. They also feared they'd feel too pressured to go out and surf or swim or do crazy things everyday, and that’s not what they’re leaving London for. They wanted to relax. So, Florida was out of the question. They thought about Texas, and then Louis made a joke that they might run into trouble for being gay, and it felt like he jinxed it, so Harry quickly strayed away from that. 

They looked up peaceful places in America, if there are such places, and the way Louis' accent tripped over Massachusetts made Harry laugh so brightly it felt like a light that dimmed inside of him long ago suddenly lit back up. Louis has since practiced saying it, and he says it normally now, but even when he pronounces it perfectly, it makes Harry giggle and Louis scowl. 

They rented a house near the beach in a community where it felt most like the people nearby only visited once a year or so, where it felt most private. It's nice. Too nice. Harry's never, ever been in a place financially where he doesn't have to flinch when remembering how expensive that house is. And that makes him feel insanely dirty, but he can't deny that it is one positive that came from all of this. 

They go on walks a lot. Almost every morning, after breakfast. There usually aren’t too many people out on the beach as early as they like to go out, so they walk and walk and walk and walk until they don't want to anymore. Sometimes they'll be out there for hours, exploring little swamp areas they found or picking up seashells or pausing to skip rocks. There are days they are almost completely silent, and there are days that they are so loud that they get dirty looks from the people who _ are  _ outside early. 

They mostly stick to the shoreline for their walks after breakfast, but they walk in town a lot too. He's pretty sure there's not a shop they haven't gone into at least once here, and they've only been here for a month. It's the middle of July, and they're leaving the first week of September. 

Clifford loves the water, Bruce hates it, and Lady is so small that they don't feel comfortable allowing her to test it out too much. They brought Tucker along as well, and he has taken a liking to all the sunspots indoors here that London fails to provide. 

He calls home once every four days. It alternates who he talks to: he wrote out a list of his family and closest friends, and he's been simply going through the people and calling whoever is next. He's due to call Gemma again tomorrow, and he’s excited to hear any new updates on Patrick. The kid is growing, and he’s growing fast.

It's nice here. It's almost too nice. At night, while they sit outside and get eaten alive by mosquitoes; in the morning when they lie in bed for an hour before getting up because they can; when Louis goes out to buy milk and comes back with stupid t-shirts with fish on them; in the lazy way they fuck wherever they want because they don't have to do it knowing they're child once sat on that sofa, or that bed, or ate off that table; those are the times that guilt creeps in on Harry, and when Harry can fiercely stomp it out and say  _ no, we deserve this. _

It's new. It's exciting. It's scary. And there are plenty of times where Harry can't convince himself to stop feeling guilty as well, but he feels himself getting lighter. He feels himself letting go. Not of her, but of all the pain and the sadness and the grief. 

Still, Sunday's hit him hard every week. Guilt eats him alive on those days.  _ Is she waiting for me at her grave? Is she wondering why I'm not there? Is she scared I'm not ever coming back? I'll be back soon, baby, I promise.  _ It makes him feel sick, sometimes, genuinely ill, and Louis always, always finds a way to make it better. 

Their son's middle name will be Quincy, named after one of their favorite cities here. Harry feels a little bad, and it's only because they're giving their son such a ridiculous middle name. 

In early August, Harry gets an email from the elementary school he used to work at. Apparently, Mrs. Orwell is dealing with some pregnancy complications that will keep her home for a bit longer than the usual maternity leave. He doesn't know what he's reading at first, and he's reading it out loud to Louis just because, and Louis wrinkles his nose. 

"That's a bit private, isn't it?" Louis asks, and Harry shushes him. 

"'As we always have, we want to extend this offer to you first. Mrs. Orwell is a third grade teacher; she also is heavily involved with the after school program for kids who are unable to be picked up until later in the day. If you want the position, know that it is yours and that we would love to have you on our team again. Of course, if it is too hard for you to teach here for obvious reasons, we understand and respect that. Best wishes, Lynn."

It's not the first time they emailed him with a job opportunity, but it's the first time that it doesn't make him incredibly angry, and it's the first time that he actually considers it. 

"It'd be dickish of me to quit the high school this late, though," Harry whispers, staring down at the phone. Third grade. He can teach third grade. He can help with the after school program, too. He'd love to. 

"If you want it," Louis says sternly, "then you better take it."

Harry wants it. He wants it so bad. "But if -- if we adopt Quincy this year, I'll need to be home more, I couldn't -- the after school program would keep me at school too late, wouldn't it?" It's just easier, referring to the boy as Quincy. Louis and Harry have both promised each other never to call him that in public, agreed that it'd probably be embarrassing for him. (Harry fully intends on breaking that promise.)

"We already decided we're adopting him next summer," Louis says. Harry must make a face, because Louis reaches out for him, arms all tanned and smooth. "Or the summer after that, it doesn't matter. Just, summer. So you'll be home to take care of him." Louis would take a few weeks off at least as well, just to be sure that Harry can handle it. That part has yet to be said out loud, but Harry is aware and grateful of it. 

"I don't think I'd ever be able to park in that parking lot and not think about her. About how she spent her last few minutes there."

"Then think about her," Louis says softly, gripping his hand. "Happy thoughts, though. Try to think happy thoughts." He crowds into Harry's space then, the blanket slipping off his waist and exposing his naked body. They're always naked nowadays, it seems. He wraps his arms around Harry and kisses the side of his head. "Go get your kids, Hazza. Go tell them not to pick their noses and whatever else you teach elementary kids."

"I'll think about it," Harry says, knowing full well he's going to take that job. He's going to. He has to. 

The three best memories from Massachusetts:




"If we get arrested for fucking on this stupid beach, it's not going to even be worth it."

Harry laughs quietly, throwing his back. The spot Louis sucked onto his neck is sore, and he feels it as the skin moves. Louis' fucking him quickly, not because he's so into it that he's not capable of going slower, but because he's been bitching about the sand going everywhere since they got out here, and he probably wants to hurry this up. Harry doesn't mind; he wraps one arm loosely around Louis' neck and takes whatever Louis wants to give him. 

"I'm serious," Louis says breathlessly. "I don't know why you're laughing. You're going to have sand up your arse for days. You're going to be shitting out bricks of sand."

"Oh my god, shut up."

They laugh too loudly for midnight. The moon is bright in the sky, almost a quarter way full. And the stars are out too, twinkling down on them. The moon and stars always look so much prettier here. Maybe it's the way they reflect on the water, making it look like a watercolor painting. Maybe it's because London's moon hasn't looked bright to him in years. 

"Am I even making you feel good?" Louis asks, wrapping a hand around Harry's dick, like a silent apology. It _ is _ shit sex. Not because of Louis, not because of anything he's doing or not doing, it's just -- sand. It's everywhere. And he's scared of the spiders. Louis folded his sweater and put it under Harry's head for a little more comfort, but the ground is still lumpy. 

"Yes," Harry says immediately. He sits up on his elbows and kisses Louis, hard. "Always, Lou."

They finish outside, and then they immediately make their way to the shower. Some late night star gazing might've been romantic, but now Harry's got sand and come up his bum, and it's also cold as shit outside. They can do that tomorrow night or something, when they're fully clothed in cozy clothes and more protected from the spiders. 

In the shower, Louis holds him for a few minutes. Just holds him. It always feels like Louis' apologizing for something. They stand under the warm spray of water, arms wrapped around each other and Louis pressing kisses to his shoulder.

It's peaceful. Harry hasn't felt at peace in what feels like forever. 




Dancing together in the kitchen late at night with music guiding their movements is a cliche, so they dance together early in the morning instead. 

The sun is pouring into the house through every window like always, lighting up their house and making it feel even more open. There's unfinished waffles on the table. Freddie Mercury is playing, because Louis and Harry have both gotten sick of their usual music and needed a change of pace. They have socks on their feet, which for Harry should be dangerous on tile, but it helps him keep up with Louis, the easy slide of his feet matching Louis'. Harry's only wearing low sweats while Louis' only wearing one of Harry's faded white sweaters, even though it just barely goes past his bum. 

_ You are the one for me, I am the man for you / You were made for me, you're my ecstasy / If I was given every opportunity, I'd kill for your love / So take a chance with me, let me romance with you / I'm caught in a dream and my dreams come true . . . _

Louis' leading them, one hand firm on Harry's chest and one on his bicep. They're mostly just rocking back and forth in circles, but Louis leads anyway. Harry's got his head resting on top of Louis', and Louis smells like beach and syrup. 

When Louis speaks, Harry almost wishes he didn't, scared of breaking the moment. Moments like these aren't as fragile as they used to be anymore, but he's still not used to that. 

"Remember how nervous you were for our first dance?" Louis whispers, stroking his fingers over Harry's collarbone. "You were like, 'Lou, maybe we shouldn't do it, nobody will notice' . . . and then _ I _ was the one who tripped. You were wearing those ridiculous flared pants, and  _ I  _ was the one who tripped." 

Harry grins. They're wedding was amazing. "Yeah, Lou. I remember. You were a bit drunk, to be fair."

"Tipsy," Louis corrects, leaning forward to smile against Harry's neck. 

Harry hums. "Tipsy."

The quiet moment lasts for another minute or so, and then  _ Mr. Bad Guy  _ comes on, and there's nothing graceful about the way they dance to that. 




There's a couple that lives six houses down. They have a daughter. She's ten. 

Every time Louis and Harry walk past their house, they always check to see if she's outside, almost instinctively. When she's not, they aren't necessarily disappointed, but when she is, they share a soft smile with each other. They don't ever stare at her, obviously. Yes, they've had a few conversations with her parents Shauna and Gale before, but that doesn't give them the right to talk to their daughter or anything like that. 

She does always wave whenever they pass though. Always. 

Her name is Nadine, and she looks nothing like Izzy did. Izzy was so pale, and Nadine has dark skin with curly hair that she never pulls back. Izzy always liked her hair pulled back. Nadine is older and more mature than Izzy ever got to be, and she has an American accent. Not an east coast accent, though: they're originally from California. 

She has the same innocent glow around her like Izzy did, though. And yeah, maybe all children have it, but Nadine just seems special in the way Izzy was. Louis theorizes she'll be a politician, the first female president in the U.S., but Harry's certain she'll go a softer route. She seems gentle, like a writer or an artist or a therapist. And maybe they’re projecting Izzy onto her, or trying to have a connection with another child even though there is none, but it doesn't feel inappropriate, so they don't stop. 

The week before they're due to leave, they're walking down the beach, hand in hand, talking quietly about how Harry's feeling about teaching younger kids again, when Nadine comes rushing up to them with a bright smile on her face. 

It's the smile. That's what it is. It's just like Isabella's. 

"My mom said you're leaving next week," she says. "Are you?"

Louis nods. "Yeah, we're heading back to London."

"Will you ever come back?"

Harry and Louis exchange a look before saying yeah, they probably will. 

"Cool," she says, still grinning. She pulls something out of her pocket and holds it out to them. It's two beaded bracelets, similar to the one she always wears. "I made these for you. I don't. . . " her smile dims a bit. "It's just a little boring around here, I don't know."

"Thank you," Louis says, taking his and slipping it over his wrist. It looks nice, the pink and orange against his tanned wrist. "It fits."

Harry nods, taking his and putting it on as well. His fits well too, if only a little snug. It's okay; it'll be a reminder that it's there. "They're pretty, Nadine. Very pretty. Thank you."

She flashes them another smile, this one a bit shier, before saying goodbye and rushing back to her porch. Their golden retriever is sitting on the porch with her, and that makes Harry feel a bit better. 

On the way back home, they pass Nadine's house again, and she's still outside. She waves at them, just like normal, and Harry and Louis wave back, beaded wrists in the air. 

-

On the first day of school, Harry's absolutely terrified. He's always nervous on the first day, but this isn't just nerves, it's proper fear. So many things can go wrong. 

What if walking back in that school brings back all the trauma Harry has managed to quiet down a bit these past few months? What if he realizes he can't handle teaching kids still, and he has to quit? He would have no job, then. Probably not for another year. And what if the kids just don't like him? Maybe third graders aren't as impressed with their teachers as his first graders were; they're eight and nine, what if they just think he's some weird old guy that makes bad jokes?

And the teachers. His old co-workers. Are they going to welcome him, or are they going to ignore him because they're scared of saying the wrong thing? What if he's just as lonely here as he was at the high school? Not to mention the fact that he and Louis probably sucked out every cent the school had to offer. . . God, maybe this is a bad idea.

Louis says that if he can handle high school kids, he can handle third graders. "And besides," he says, squeezing Harry's shoulders from behind. "We were thinking about adopting a seven, eight, or nine year old. . . This will be like a test run. If you think it's an awful age, we can adopt older."

It makes Harry smile gently.

"He could even be in your class," Louis continues, and immediately, Harry shakes his head. 

"I couldn't protect her there," he whispers, his smile dropping. "I don't want to make the same mistake twice."

"We didn't make a mistake," Louis says. "And if you think that school won't watch our kid like a hawk to make sure _ they _ don't make the same mistake twice, you're wrong. Everyone will be keeping an eye on him, you included." He presses a kiss to the back of his head. "Obviously, if you aren't comfortable with it, that's fine. I'm just thinking out loud."

"I'll think about it," Harry says, nodding. The idea of having Quincy right where he can see him would comfort him as much as it'd make him paranoid. He steps out of Louis' arm to get centered in the mirror again. "Now," he slides his fingers over his tie, "Does this tie make me look like a dork?"

"Yes," Louis whispers, grinning. "But in the very best way."

"You sure penguins are cool to third graders? I could find another one. . . " He has a whole drawer full of stupid ties. He likes how the kids looked forward to seeing what tie he would come in wearing that day. 

"No, I like this one."

"But I have a Superman one. Maybe that'll go over better, I could just -- "

Louis kisses the side of his cheek and shakes his head. "You'll be brilliant, love. Penguin tie and all."

"God, I hope so."

The first day goes over well. 

Watching the kids pile into his classroom, some with their parents, some without, makes Harry beyond jittery. In a good way, though. A new kid will walk in, and they'll either shy away from him or they'll immediately greet him happily, and both are okay. He has a whole year to make everyone warm up to him. 

And he has candy. It's not bribery, it's strategy. 

A young boy and his mother walk into the classroom.  _ Mr. Tomlinson _ is currently duct taped over Mrs. Orwell's plaque outside her room; this  _ is _ still her classroom. This could just be temporary, could last a year and then be over. The superintendent promised him that as soon as the next teacher retired or quit, no matter which grade they teach, that room will be his and his only. 

"Hi," he greets, smiling down at the boy. "I'm Mr. Tomlinson, what's your name?"

"Alex," the boy says, matching his smile. His hand is loose on his mum's. "I like your tie."

His mum nods. "Penguins. That's very cute."

God, she thinks he's a dork. But Alex doesn't, these kids won't, and that's all he cares about. 

-

At the end of the day, after the kids pile out of his classroom, two of them giving him hugs already, the school principal, Ms. Carry, comes into his classroom. She's new; the last one got fired, probably because of Isabella. She seems friendly enough, talking to Harry about the kids, the first day, about the decorations and posters he put up around the room. 

He thinks she's here just to introduce herself, but of course, that's not the case. "I don't know if you realized," she says, "but four of the students on your roster weren't here today."

He nods slowly, sitting back in the chair. 

She clears her throat and folds her hands together. "Some of the parents felt uncomfortable with you being their children's teacher. Just, with everything that happened, um -- "

He nods again, firmer this time. He was expecting it. "I understand. I, um. Didn't expect four of them, but I expected at least a few parents to think some type of way about me."

She looks relieved that he's not upset. "I personally don't agree with their choice, but of course, parents do have the option to switch their children out of a classroom for whatever reason. I just came here to let you know that some kids will be switched into your classroom tomorrow."

"And what if those parents don't want me as their kid's teacher either?"

"We're planning on having an open and honest conversation with them," she says, her smile stiff. "We'll let them know why some parents were a bit. . . apprehensive, I suppose. That way we won't have to deal with this again."

"Okay," he whispers, nodding. "Okay. I appreciate it, I guess."

"I really am sorry, Harry."

He waves her off and sits up straighter. It's fine. It's okay. He can deal with this. "Don't be. Like I said, I was expecting some backlash."

She nods sympathetically. "Okay. Well, thank you for being so understanding about this. I should go, though. I have some calls to make." She takes a step back and motions to the door. "It was nice talking with you. And I like your tie."

Despite everything, it makes him grin.

-

Teaching third graders is just as rewarding as teaching first graders was. 

They're a bit more rebellious, but they're also more intelligent. So, Harry has to stop worrying about them smashing their fingers in drawers, and now has to worry about them smashing _ other _ people's fingers in drawers on purpose. He supposes it's a fair trade off. 

Since the kids are obviously older, Harry's teaching them more complex material. They're starting to work with fractions and decimals, learning more reading strategies, expanding their vocabulary. It takes a bit more work than he's used to to teach them a new skill; with his first graders, most skills he taught them weren't that hard to catch on to, and with his high school students, they were older and had been taking history classes for ages. It's alright, though. He's managing. He knows how to read his class and when he has to spend a little more time on something. 

Learning more difficult tasks also means they need him more. They need his help, need him to guide them, and Harry is more than happy to sit down with a student and walk them through something, step by step. Sometimes he wonders if he's coddling them a bit  _ too _ much, but he doesn't care. He can't, not when they look so happy when they finally figure something out. 

Most of the kids call him Mr. Tomlinson now, opposed to the Mr. T he always got with his first graders. 

He's happier than he's been in so fucking long. When he gets home from work, exhausted and sated, he doesn't immediately break down into a fit of tears or sit around, moping until Louis gets home. He's taken to walking the dogs when he gets home, or calling the people who want to hear from him. He's talking to his mum and his step-dad more in the last month than he has in the last handful of years. 

It's like his legs have learned to support him again, or his lungs have suddenly expanded to allow more air in. 

Louis and him grow even closer. Harry feared that Massachusetts was a fluke, that things between them wouldn't be as good and as easy when they got back to London, but they have been. They've been doing really, really well. They've been going out more tomorrow, to diners and to random shops and to the shopping mall. 

Harry doesn't let the guilt settle in until Sunday, when he's sitting besides his daughter's grave and telling her about the lunch he bought yesterday, or the gift Louis got him, or the new project he's given his students. He apologizes to her a lot.  _ I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry. I wish you could be here with us.  _ On Sundays, he fully embraces the guilt.

They contact the adoption agency they got Izzy through to begin early discussions. It's only October and they don't feel comfortable taking a kid in until late June, but this type of thing can take ages. It's never too early to start, is what the lady on the phone says, and she's right. 

-

-

On the thirtieth of June, two hours before they're due to arrive at a foster lady's house to meet an eight year old boy they've matched with, Louis and Harry go to the tattoo parlor and get Isabella's name tattooed on the inside of their wrists. Louis went into her room, and very, _ very  _ carefully went through Izzy's things to try and find something that she wrote her name on. They want it in her handwriting, even if it's not the most beautiful. She sucked at writing b's, and her I's were always so slanted, and that's what made it hers. That's what they want inked into their skin for the rest of their lives. 

It's neither of their first tattoos, so it goes smoothly. It doesn't take too long before the tattoo artist is wiping over the new tattoo one last time and telling him he's all set. Louis went first, so his has already been done and wrapped in plastic wrap. He comes over and presses his wrist against Harry's; the tattoo is identical, but Harry's skin is twice as red and a bit more swollen compared to Louis'. 

They leave a few minutes later, and Harry can't stop staring at his wrist as Louis drives. Nadine's bracelet usually sits on his left wrist, and since the tattoo is there now, he moved it to his right wrist until it heals. 

All they know about the boy is his name is Ethan, he's eight, and he's been in the foster system for six years. He's moved from home to home a lot, not because of his behavior -- they stressed this multiple times -- but because of other circumstances. The agency explained that, most of the time, he was rehomed because the family housing him wanted to move on, for financial or other reasons. And once he was rehomed because they had evidence of foul play, as they put it, and Louis crushed Harry’s hand underneath the desk.

“He was abused, you mean?” he asked. 

The lady wavered. “We have reasons to believe that he was possibly physically harmed, although it’s not -- he’s okay now. He was only with them for about two months, and it hasn’t seemed to affect him.”

The support system behind this kid is strong. They’re protective of him, and everyone speaks highly of him, and whenever there’s something that might deter a couple from wanting to adopt Ethan, they try to quiet it. 

Ethan's had two adoptions fall through already, one in the early stages and one as last minute as it can get, and they’re hesitant about allowing Harry and Louis to meet him. They've completed every other step, though. The only thing that'll stop this from happening is if Ethan doesn't like them, or they don't think Ethan will be a good fit. 

"Little Quincy is finally gonna get a face," Louis says, smiling at him softly. And then: "I don't know if we should actually add that to his birth certificate, by the way. Maybe it can just be a nickname."

Harry nods. Changing a child's name, even if it is just adding to it, seems a bit cruel. He's eight. He's seen his paperwork hundreds of times. He might feel weird having another name added to it. Down the road, Ethan might want his last name changed to Hill to Tomlinson, and maybe then they can talk about the middle name thing, but for now and always, if Ethan wants, Ethan Thomas Hill is more than okay. 

Ethan is about the gentlest person Harry's ever, ever met. His foster mum Kate says that it's a front, that he's usually a bit more lively and careless, and that Ethan is scared. He's scared of fucking this up for himself. He wants a home. A family. 

"He is a very polite boy though," she says, nodding at him. Louis and Ethan are playing a board game on the floor together. "He doesn't want any trouble. He's quiet, sometimes a bit shy. I don't think you'll have any troubles with him."

Harry shrugs, his fingers tightening on the mug he's holding. "Even if we do," he says slowly, watching as Ethan's eyes light up as Louis tells him something, "we can work with him. We'll be a team, you know? We're not going to throw in the towel if he has some behavioral issues."

She smiles at him. He said something right, he can tell. "Well, he's very excited about the fact you have dogs. His last foster home had one, and he was crushed that I don't. I'm allergic though, so."

"We have a cat, too."

Ethan giggles loudly, the first laugh he's given them since they got here. It's been an hour. It's so nice to hear. And then he turns to find Harry, and his smile fades a bit. He's nervous, so Harry doesn't take it to heart. He's probably wondering if he was too loud, or something. If Harry's going to be irritated. Harry's not, and he gives Ethan a gentle smile and nods at him. 

"Is he caught up in school?" Harry asks, curious. Her smile falters. 

"We're trying," she says quickly. "He's very good at math, and he likes to read, but his writing skills are lacking and he's not at his grade-level for reading yet. He just needs a little extra help. You're a teacher, you understand, right?"

"Of course," he says. "I can work with him, you know. During the summer. One-on-one helps kids. Is he -- what grade is he going into next year?"

"We might have him redo the second grade." She's quiet, like she's sure this is going to mess up Ethan's chances of getting adopted with them. It doesn't, it doesn't at all. Harry wants to take care of him already. He wants that sweet boy to be theirs. 

"He's supposed to be in third next year, though?"

She nods. 

"Let me work with him," he says, standing up straighter. "Give me the summer, and then we'll have him reevaluated. If -- if he needs to redo second grade, that's fine. But I'm teaching third grade again this year, so if he is still struggling only a bit, we can put him in my class and I'll keep an eye on him."

Kate shrugs. "It's not up to me, Harry. That sounds like a great idea, but you must know I can't just hand him over now. If this goes well, you won't have him for a few more weeks. A month, probably. And even then, you never know. Things might change." She takes a deep breath. "I just don't want you getting your hopes up, is all."

"There's nothing wrong with a little hope, Kate. I can help him. Even if -- even if I just stopped by every week to sit down with him to have him read for me until he's ours."

"You'd do that for him?"

Harry nods. "Yeah, I would. All kids like him need is someone with patience." He glances at Ethan again, and now him and Louis aren't playing with the game anymore, they're just talking. Ethan is running his hands along the carpet, not looking at Louis, and Louis' staring at him with a fond smile. "My mates adopted this little girl named Angie," he says, turning back to her. "She was from Cuba, and her English was a bit rocky sometimes, and they just sat with her for hours, getting her to talk about anything so they could help her. That's -- kids deserve that.  _ Ethan  _ deserves that. I'll help him, if you let me."

She looks hesitant. "Even if he doesn't end up being ours?"

"Even if he doesn't end up being mine," he promises, even though the thought of that is terrifying. 

"Alright," she says, leaning back against the door frame. "Ask him if he wants to color. He likes to color."

Harry nods and moves towards Louis and Ethan. Ethan goes quiet as Harry sits down next to them, and Louis reaches forward to press two fingers gently against Ethan's knee. "And then what happened?" Louis asks gently. 

Ethan glances at Harry, unsure. "There was a dinosaur," he says slowly, eyes not leaving Harry's face. Harry tries to look nothing else but patient and loving.

"What color was the dinosaur?" he asks, hoping to gain some of the trust Ethan gave to Louis. It's just, they could tell Ethan was overwhelmed with both Louis and Harry at once, so Harry went to speak to Kate to give them some space. Now Harry's potentially stepping on the fragile trust building between Ethan and Louis, and he doesn't want to.

"Orange," Ethan says. "With green spots. Right here," he motions to his chest, and Louis and Harry both break into a grin. 

"Did he have horns?" Louis asks. 

Ethan shakes his head. "No. Tony was a nice dinosaur."

He glances away from Harry to look at Louis again, and that's trust. He's comfortable not looking at Harry right now, not scared that he'll do something the minute Ethan looks away. 

Harry listens to Ethan's dream quietly and contently, and then once he's finished, he asks if he wants to color. Ethan fucking  _ beams. _

-

The next week, Harry stops by Kate's as promised to help him with his reading. They start out with books meant for first graders. Picture books with a handful of sentences here and there, really. He just wants to figure out where Ethan is. And Ethan does well. He sits next to Harry and reads to him from a book called  _ The Three Billy Goats Gruff, _ and he does so almost flawlessly. He trips over some words, and it leaves him frustrated and embarrassed. Almost too embarrassed; Harry doesn't like that. So, they read through the stack of books Harry brought and don't move onto anything harder, because Harry doesn't want to hurt Ethan's self-esteem. 

"You did so well, bud," Harry tells him, grinning, as Ethan shuts the last book. "Look at all these books you just read. You're a pro."

Ethan shrugs and looks down at his lap. "I'm sorry I messed up."

"Hey, no. You did great. You didn't mess up, okay? You're practicing."

"Can I keep this one?" Ethan asks, bending down to pick out _ Strictly No Elephants _ from the pile. He shows it to Harry. "I wanna practice it with Kate. For next time."

Harry grins and tells him of course, that he can keep them all if he wants. A few of them are Izzy's, but she wouldn't mind, he's sure of it. 

Before the second week, Louis and Harry's paperwork gets rejected. A technicality error, nothing major. They just have to fix the error and resubmit it. It'll push back the court date where they're supposed to officially adopt Ethan, but it's alright. They can't wait another few days. 

Harry comes back every week for five weeks straight. He started him on books meant for second graders the second meeting, and he's already showing some improvement. Some. Nothing huge, but some. He's not even a bad reader; he gets intimidated by bigger words, and sometimes he messes them up, and then he's upset with himself and struggles to concentrate, which hurts his reading performance. Harry saw that all the time with his third graders last year. Even kids can be too hard on themselves. 

Every time Ethan gets a little too worked up, they pause to color for a few minutes. It's just to settle Ethan's nerves, to reinforce the idea that Harry's not going to give up on him after one tiny mistake. 

After the third meeting, Kate tells him that Ethan really likes him and Louis, that he talks about them a lot. At the fourth meeting, Ethan hugs him before he goes. During the fifth, as Ethan reads, his fingers run through the bumps of the beaded bracelet on Harry's wrist. Harry stays a bit longer that day, too obsessed with how much Ethan's warmed up to him, and he colors with Ethan until his wrist is sore. The entire time, Ethan sits right next to him, close enough that their arms brush against one another as Ethan colors. 

"Kate says you and Louis are going to adopt me next week," Ethan says, staring down at the picture he's coloring. "She said that I'm going to live with you guys now."

Harry nods slowly. "How do you feel about that, hmm?"

Ethan doesn't answer him directly. "One time these people named Martin and Lisa were going to adopt me, and then they didn't. Lisa got pregnant and they were going to have a real baby."

"I'm sorry, E. That sounds rough." He doesn't know what to say. How Ethan said  _ real baby _ doesn't sit right with him -- Ethan is just as real as that baby is -- but he's not sure the best way to go about it. He settles for a promise: "Me and Louis want you as our own, though. We aren't ever going to stop wanting that."

Ethan frowns. "Never?"

"Never," Harry echoes. "I promise."

"But what if you change your mind?"

"We won't, baby," Harry says, and then mentally kicks himself for the nickname. Ethan might not be comfortable with that yet. He doesn't react to it, so maybe he didn't mess up too badly. "We won't, Ethan. We already love you so, so much." 

Louis' been visiting regularly too, just to say hi and keep his face familiar in Ethan's life, and Ethan and Louis have bonded already. He and Harry have too, but Ethan has really taken to Louis.

"Could I bring my stuff?" Ethan asks quietly. "To your house?"

"Of course. Anything you want."

"And could I maybe see Kate sometimes?"

"Of course, Ethan." Harry hesitates before setting his hand on Ethan's little back, a gentle touch. He doesn't do anything else until Ethan relaxes under his touch and ducks his head with a small smile on his face. "You can see her whenever you want, alright? Just talk to me and Louis about whatever you want. It's going to be your home too, right?"

Ethan nods slowly, looking unsure. 

"Right. So we want you to be as comfortable as possible. If there's anything Lou or I can do to make you even the tiniest bit more comfortable, let us know, okay?"

Ethan nods again, looking only a fraction more certain. It's okay. Harry doesn't expect him to trust them wholeheartedly right away. And he's confused, of course he's confused. He doesn't have to have anything figured out. They'll help him get there. 

The night before they're due to legally adopt Ethan, neither Louis or Harry can sleep. 

Earlier, Kate came by with Ethan so he could see the house and meet the dogs. Tomorrow is going to be overwhelming for Ethan, and they all want to limit the amount of newness Ethan has to get used to all at once. Seeing Ethan in their house cemented the idea that that is their child now. He's theirs. Isabella has a new sibling, and he's as perfect as she was. And right now, that feels wrong to even think  _ (how dare you compare another kid to her, she's yours, she was supposed to always be yours, nobody can be as perfect as she was) _ , but he has to keep thinking it until he starts believing it. He can't be selfish or irrationally protective over Izzy, for Ethan's sake. He has to be the father to Ethan that he wanted to be, and was for five years, to Isabella. 

Ethan loved the dogs. Tucker, though, was his favorite. And he got to see his room, which is mostly bare right now. They bought a new bed and bedding for him, some dressers and a desk. They don't know enough about Ethan to feel comfortable designing his entire room for him, and even if they did, taking Ethan out to buy decorations and other things for his room will be a good bonding experience for them. However, Harry did take it upon himself to buy a bookshelf and fill it halfway with books. The other half will be filled eventually, with whatever Ethan decides he wants to read. 

And Ethan loved it. His eyes lit up and he ran his fingers over the books, and Louis pressed a tender kiss to Harry's temple. It felt incredible, Ethan being here. Ethan being home. 

"You nervous?" Louis asks quietly, his thumb moving over Harry's knuckles. 

Harry nods. "Of course."

"Yeah, me too." Louis rests his head on top of Harry's. "He loved it here, though. He's going to be fine.  _ We're _ going to be fine."

And yeah, Harry knows that, but, "When are we going to tell him about Izzy?"

"When he asks about her," Louis says immediately, like he had the answer ready because he knew Harry was going to ask it. "When he asks who that girl is in the pictures, or when he asks why he isn't allowed to go in that room. Or about our tattoos, I don't know."

"I don't like feeling like we're hiding her from him, Louis."

"We aren't, love," Louis says. "But I don't want him thinking he has to live up to someone else's standards. I don't want him feeling like he's our replacement. And the minute he shows any wonder about who she is, we'll tell him."

That doesn't feel fair to Izzy, but at the same time, Louis has a point. Ethan's insecure with his place in their lives, and they have to prove to him they want him here just the way he is. Throwing in the fact that they used to have another child might confuse him, might scare him off. It might make him feel like he's living in someone else's house, and Harry doesn't want that. He wants Ethan to feel at home here. 

"Do you think they would get along?" Harry asks quietly, almost scared of the answer. 

Louis smiles. "Yeah, I do. I think Izzy would thoroughly enjoy dragging him into her mischief."

"I think she'd be good for him," Harry says. As if Louis knows how vulnerable Harry's feeling right now, he moves the covers over Harry's shoulders and rubs his arm. Harry squirms closer to him. "They would be best friends, I know they would be. They'd have to be."

"They'd love each other like crazy."

"She could help me teach him how to read better," he says, closing his eyes. "We could -- we both could help him with his writing skills. She'd be older than him, if she. . . we could have done it together."

Louis squeezes his shoulder. "Yeah, you two could’ve. She would've been a good teacher. Just like her daddy."

Harry lets out a shaky breath against Louis' chest, and they both know they should stop talking about her now, or else they'll be up half the night crying. They can't do that, not anymore. For Ethan. 

-

Ethan cries when the judge officially declares him as their children, and for a heart-stopping second, Harry thinks they've just emotionally damaged this child beyond repair, and then Ethan throws his arms around the both of them. Harry chokes out a laugh and rests his cheek on top of Ethan's head as Louis rubs his hand up and down his back. Ethan's obviously bigger than Izzy ever got to be, but he's still small, so small, and Harry's worried about hugging him too hard, just like he was with Izzy at first. 

Ethan whimpers out a thank you, and Louis shushes him softly. "You don't have to thank us, baby. You're alright, bug."

"Happy tears, right?" Harry asks, checking-in, and Ethan nods into his shoulder. His hands are clutching onto a different part of Louis and Harry, and it feels so, so nice. "Good, bud. We're happy, too."

Kate appears in front of them, and she's smiling down at them from where they're kneeling on the ground with watery eyes. She sets her hand on Ethan's head and drags her fingers through his light brown hair. "You ready to go home, E?"

Ethan nods again. "Yes, please. Want to see Tucker again."

And God, that's the first time Ethan has referred to Harry and Louis' as home, and that feels fucking incredible. It pulls a few tears out of both of them, and Harry's heart feels like it's made of goo when Ethan pulls away and grabs for their hands. They stand, and Louis finds Harry's eyes. 

"Let's take our Quincy home, yeah?"

Harry nods, choking on another wet laugh. 

-

-

Ethan adapts to their lives quicker than they could have hoped for. By the end of the first week, he's fallen asleep tucked into Harry's side as they watched TV twice, and has sat in Louis' lap countless times as they sat with him and got him to write for them. (He has much more to catch up on with writing than he does reading. It's almost to the point that it's worrying; Harry's not sure how he sat in a second grade class for an entire year without being able to write more than a handful of words. But he wants to learn, and he doesn't get as frustrated with it as he does with reading -- although that's improving too.)

Ethan has a bit of a social issue, one that Kate promises is nothing more than him being shy. So, they try to take him out and over to other's houses as much as he can. He never doesn’t want to go somewhere, or talk to someone, it's more of an issue of being unable to, so it's not like they're being cruel. And he has a much easier time talking to kids his age or younger than he does with adults, as they learn with Nathan, Angela and Patrick. Nathan is twelve already, Angie is six now, and Patrick is three. Nathan and Ethan get along fine, and they enjoy spending time together, but it's clear they won't be becoming best of friends any time soon. They just don't mesh like that, and that's okay. Ethan likes Patrick a lot more than he does Angie; he's intrigued by Patrick, about how his brain works, while Angie is a bit less interesting to him. He and Angie play too, and he looks forward to visiting her, but it's clear he likes how fascinating Patrick finds him and everyone else around him. Ethan also really likes Louis' mum, for some reason, and he sometimes asks if they can go see her, and Harry and Louis always melt at how hopeful he looks. 

They tell him about Izzy two and a half weeks after he's home. And of course the time the conversation comes up is when Louis isn't home. He's at the fucking store, and Harry's stuck with a crying Ethan by himself because Harry snapped at him on accident and it just --

Tucker was clawing at her door, apparently, and all Ethan was going to do is let him in. They've asked him not to go inside that room, and he hasn't. He didn't even question it. But Harry's brain went haywire when he turned into the hallway and saw Ethan's hand on the doorknob, the door cracked slightly, and he rushed forward to shut the door.

"Do not go in here," Harry said, tone icy, and Ethan looked shocked and confused and he just burst into tears, and Harry felt awful. Still feels awful, because Ethan's still crying, even though it's been a few minutes and Harry apologized to him profusely already. 

Ethan hates,  _ hates _ , feeling like he's done something to make Harry or Louis upset, or even just annoyed. He's still scared they're going to get rid of him, even though his room is fully decorated (he likes space, apparently, and there are lots of dog stuffed animals) and Harry and Louis have promised him they want him here. 

"I didn't mean to get mad, E, I'm sorry," Harry whispers, rubbing his back. At least Ethan is letting him comfort him; Harry's pretty sure he doesn't deserve to. Ethan has his head burrowed into Harry's chest and he's clinging to him. 

"I just wanted to let Tucker in," Ethan says, sniffling. Harry closes his eyes and bites down on his lip hard. God, he should've handled the situation with a bit more grace, he just -- he doesn't want anything in Izzy's room changing, and Ethan could have everything rearranged in a minute. 

"I know, baby. I know that now. I'm sorry."

Harry avoids the topic of Izzy until Louis comes home. Harry doesn't even tell him anything happened, at first, because Ethan is nearby and he doesn't want him thinking Harry is telling on him to Louis, but Louis asks him about a half hour later why Ethan is so quiet, and Harry tells him. 

"I didn't mean to get mad, Lou," Harry whispers, ashamed, and Louis shakes his head. 

"I would have, too," he says. "I don't blame you. We just have to explain it to him."

They do, a little later, when Ethan's acting normally again. They grab a family picture off the wall and sit down at the table and ask Ethan to come sit with them. He does, although he looks anxious, and Louis immediately grabs his hand. 

"We just want to tell you something, Ethan. Don't worry."

Harry lets Louis lead, because he's weak and he's mad at himself and too scared to say the wrong thing. Louis shows Ethan the picture. It's a Christmas picture, and they're all wearing Santa hats. Bruce and Clifford have puff balls attached to their collars because they wouldn't deal with the hats for even just one picture, and Izzy is standing in the center, smiling wide. 

"Where's Lady?" Ethan asks, sitting up on his heels in the chair. 

"We didn't have her yet."

Ethan nods. "Who's that?" he asks, reaching forward to point at Izzy. "Is that Angie?"

Louis snorts quietly. Angie and Izzy don't look anything alike. "No, E. That's. . . That's Izzy. She was our daughter." And Harry knows how hard it is for Louis to say  _ was,  _ because they both say  _ is _ whenever they say she's their daughter. She still is their daughter, dead or alive. But that might confuse things for Ethan, so they have to be careful. 

Louis explains it to him slowly and patiently: they had a daughter, and now they don't anymore. Yes, she was adopted like he was. Yes, they loved her very much. No, they did not  _ get rid _ of her; she died. Ethan knows what that means, and his face falls. 

"Oh," he says, sitting back a bit. 

"That room Tucker was trying to get into was hers," Louis says, and his voice starts to shake a bit. Harry finds his fingers under the table and squeezes them. "We just don't want people going in there, and that's why Harry got upset. But he's not -- he's not upset with _ you, _ alright, E? He's not. He just -- we just miss her very much, and sometimes it's difficult to handle the way you miss people."

It's clear Ethan doesn't know what to say. Maybe he doesn't know what to say at all, or maybe he's scared to say whatever he's thinking, but he doesn't say anything. And that's okay. 

"And we know there are lots of pictures of her," Louis continues. "And maybe -- maybe you've been wondering about them. But I promise, we'll get one of the three of us up soon, alright? Me, you and Harry. I've been meaning to print that one of us on your adoption day, but I haven't yet. And we'll hang it up in the hallway, alright? Right next to hers."

Ethan nods slowly. It's clear he wants that.

He asks about her occasionally. Just random, thoughtless questions about her. _ Did she watch this show with you, too? Was she friends with Angie? Did she go into foster care like me?  _ It's hard at first, but eventually, they get used to it. He's just curious. 

By the end of August, Harry has him reading at a third grade level, although his writing skills are still a bit shaky. He can write simple sentences, and he's a lot better at expanding his ideas than he used to be, although Harry knows for certain that he's going to struggle to keep up with the language arts aspect of third grade. Harry's hesitant about just throwing him in there, but Louis is stubborn and wants to keep him with people his age. 

"He's good at math, and he's good at reading now, and he," Louis sighs one night, while they're at the kitchen table discussing it. "Yeah, he probably couldn't write a simple essay if you asked him to, not without our help, but he could easily tell you what he'd want to write about, and I think that's what is more important."

"I suppose," Harry mumbles, still not quite sure. He agrees with Louis, he does, but if putting Ethan in third grade is going to hurt his self-esteem when he realizes he's not exactly caught up to his peers in some aspects, they won't know until it's too late. 

"He can read text and comprehend it," Louis says, "and he can analyze at a basic level. Yes, he's going to have trouble putting those ideas onto paper, but he won't have any trouble _ thinking of _ those ideas, and again, I think that's what is important."

Harry nods. They have to take a chance, and if it doesn't work out, it's okay. They'll handle it if it comes to that. "And are we still sure that keeping him in my class is a good idea? I'm worried I'm going to coddle him too much, or he's going to ask me for help too much."

"He needs a little extra help," Louis tells him, "and there's no one better than you to give him that. I don't. . . I don't even know if he'd be comfortable enough to go to a different teacher for help, and then he's going to get left behind."

Before Harry can say he agrees, Ethan comes out into the kitchen with Tucker in his arms, looking sleepy and in his light green pajamas. He's had a nightmare a time or two, and one of the times had Ethan up sobbing for an hour, and Harry's heart clenches with the worry that's the reason Ethan is up. 

"What's up, love?" Louis asks gently, turning around to face Ethan. Ethan doesn't respond at first, just sets Tucker down on the ground ( _ gently, _ they have to remind him of that sometimes; he's too used to being a little rough with the bigger dogs and he forgets that Lady and Tucker are littler) and comes to sit at the table with them. 

"Tucker was scratching at your door," he says, rubbing at his eyes with his fists. "Woke me up.”

The knots in Harry's stomach loosen. "You think you'll be able to go back to bed?" It's only eleven, of course he will be able to, but still. 

Ethan nods, gets back off the chair, hugs them both, and then heads back to his room after whispering a quiet  _ love you  _ to them both. It didn't take him long to start saying that, only a few weeks, but Harry's sure it used to be out of habit. Now, though, iti feels true. Ethan loves them. 

-

"Did Izzy get to pick out your ties, too?"

Harry's heart thumps painfully hard in his just as he turns to look at Ethan, who's rifling through his tie drawer trying to find which one he likes best. Harry told him it's a very important job, picking out which tie he'd wear the first day of school, and Ethan's taking the duty seriously. 

"Yeah, Quincy, she did."

Ethan's face scrunches in the cute way it always does at the nickname; Louis accidentally called him it once, and then they explained why, and Ethan liked it. They call him Ethan more than anything else, but them having a special nickname for him makes him happy.  _ It's like how Izzy is short for Isabella, right? _ he asked after Harry and Louis explained the origin of the nickname to him. He found out her full name was Isabella when Harry took him to the graveyard with him, just the one time. Ethan wanted to come with, and Harry didn't think it'd hurt. He likes having that alone time with her, though, so he still goes by himself. Louis nodded once.  _ Yeah, sort of.  _

_ " _ I like this one," Ethan says, pulling out a polka dotted tie. It's light blue with pink dots, and it doesn't match with what Harry's got on at all, so he takes the tie from Ethan and thanks him before going back to his drawers and finding a shirt to wear that'll match better. 

Ethan holds onto Harry's hand tightly the entire walk from the car, to the office, and to the classroom. Since he's taking over Mrs. Orwell's classroom again, all he gets is a sign duct taped to the wall still, but it's alright. He belongs here, and he knows that now. 

"You can sit wherever you want, bud," Harry tells him, unlocking the door. They're here early, partly because that's just what teachers do and partly because he wants to make Ethan comfortable in his classroom before the other kids get in. It's just -- so much has changed for Ethan in such a short amount of time. Harry wants to make sure everything stays as painless as possible. 

Ethan lets go of his hand when they get inside, and he wanders through the aisles of desks. He stops at one about three desks away from Harry's desk; he wants some independence, but he also wants Harry close by. Harry can work with that. He sits down at his own desk and smiles at Ethan. 

"If we through today and you decide it's a bit weird having me as your teacher," he says, "just let me know and I'll get you a new teacher, alright?"

"No," Ethan says almost immediately. His hands go up to the straps of his backpack -- space themed -- and he rocks on his feet a bit. "I mean, I think I'd like if you were my teacher."

Harry nods. "Okay. Here, let me show you around a bit."

-

It's in the middle of October, and Ethan's show strides in both his school work and his home life. Harry's not worried about Ethan's school performance at all anymore, in any subject area. He's spoken to Kate, and they're both pretty sure that any skills that were lacking were from insecurity on Ethan's end. Too scared to try in case he fails. He must feel more comfortable in failure now.

Ethan's made friends, too, and maybe it's a little odd having some of his students in his house, but Harry doesn't mind it because their parents don't and Ethan gets so, so happy. Kate was right: Ethan's reservation was a front, mostly. He's still an introvert at heart, although he's not necessarily as quiet anymore. Louis and Harry are almost certain that they've made their way through all his layers by now, and that Ethan is one-hundred percent comfortable with them and their home. 

A week before Halloween, Louis and Harry are talking at the dining table while talking about one of Louis' sisters. They're eating dinner, and Ethan seems content with just listening. 

"Well, Mum wants her to go to university," Louis says, shrugging. "I don't think she has to, but -- "

"Do you have a dad?" Ethan interrupts, and they both glance at him, curious. Ethan knows Mark, Louis' step-dad. They've met. So Ethan's question is not a direct one. 

"Yeah, Mark," Louis says slowly. "Why?"

Ethan glances at Harry before looking down at his plate. "And you have two dads?" 

Harry sets his chin on his hand. "Kind of. I have my biological dad and then my step-father, Robin."

"So you both call your parents their first names, too?" Ethan looks confused, and maybe a little sad. Louis and Harry exchange a knowing look before glancing back at Ethan. 

Harry clears his throat. "Well, I call my dad 'Dad', and both me and Lou call our mum's 'Mum'. The only reason we call Mark and Robin by their first names is because they're not, um. We met them a bit later in life and didn't feel the need to call them anything else."

Louis nods, but Ethan's not looking at them. Louis taps in front of him to get Ethan's attention, and he looks up. He looks a bit pouty. "Ethan," Louis says slowly. "Do you. . . I mean, me and Harry can stay Louis and Harry, or you can call us something else. Only if it's nice, though."

Ethan gives him a half-hearted smile, and it fades quickly. "Everyone else at school just has a mum and a dad. They don't have a Harry and Louis."

"And not all parents have a Quincy," Louis tells him, and again, it forces a smile out of Ethan. This one sticks a bit longer. 

"You can call us 'Dad' if you want to, love," Harry says, almost scared. He's bracing himself for rejection, for Ethan to say no, he doesn't want that. "Only if you want to."

Ethan looks down at his plate again. "What'd Izzy call you?" he asks, voice quiet. 

A pang of hurt hits Harry chest hard. "She called us 'Dad', Ethan, but that's -- you're not Izzy. We don't want you to be Izzy. You're Ethan, alright? You're our Quincy. We don't expect you to do things just because she did them."

"But what if I wanted to call you that, too?"

"Then we'd be very, very happy," Louis says, and he sounds near tears. Harry reaches over to grab his hand, and Louis squeezes his almost painfully tight. "But if you still wanted to call us Harry and Louis, just sometimes or all of the time, that'd make us happy, too. We want whatever it is that'll make you most happy."

"And you don't have to decide right now," Harry adds. "If this is something you want to think about, that's okay."

"Okay," Ethan says, nodding. He takes a sip of his water before saying, "You can go back to talking about Fizzy now. Sorry."

"Don't apologize, E, it's alright." Louis speaks calmly, but he's crushing Harry's fingers.

-

Ethan calls Louis 'Dad' first, and it's completely okay.

Harry's in bed, reading a book, waiting for Louis to come to bed. He's saying goodnight to Ethan, and then he and Louis are going to wait a half hour before slipping into the shower and double-checking that the door is locked because Louis has been horny all day and it's been a while. 

Harry's halfway through a sentence when Louis practically bursts through the door and breathes out, "H, he just called me dad." He tumbles into bed and wraps his arms around Harry's body, presses kisses to his jaw, before Harry has a chance to process it. "I'm sorry, I'm sure he'll -- "

"No, no, don't apologize," Harry whispers, wrapping his arms around Louis' shoulders. He pulls him closer, his heart hammering in his chest. "That's so good, Lou. That's so. . . Did he seem nervous?"

Louis shakes his head and pulls back from Harry just enough to show him his proud smile. "No, not really. He just said it. Just, 'See you in the morning, Dad.' It was," Louis laughs, "God, Harry. Are you sure you're not upset?"

"Not at all," Harry promises. He leans forward to kiss Louis, and Louis grabs his jaw tightly. "Izzy called me Daddy first, so it seems only fair."

"Oi, shut it," Louis says, laughing into his cheek. Harry used to bring that up all the time, when she was still alive. 'Izzy pooped in the toilet for me today.' 'Yeah? And she called me Daddy first, so.' It was a lighthearted joke between them, and it feels lighthearted  _ now, _ and that's just -- 

Louis presses kiss after kiss into Harry's jaw, neck, collarbones, and Harry laughs quietly, eyes only a little wet with tears. "We don't have to wait a half hour," Louis says, lips moving over the spot under Harry's ear.

"If he comes to our room for -- "

"He won't," Louis says, already tugging Harry off the bed. "He won't, come on."

Harry lets himself be tugged to the shower, and as they hurriedly take off their clothes, desperate and fueled with pride and joy, Harry stops for a second to grab Louis' wrist and press a long, soft kiss to the ink there.

She is with them, always.


	2. Epilogue

_ Ten Years Later.  _

“If I’m sick for graduation, I’m gonna  _ cry. _ ”

Harry laughs softly, even though he knows it’s probably a little mean. Ethan is eighteen, which legally means he’s an adult now, and is a week away from graduating high school, and yet every time he gets even the tiniest bit of a cold, he turns into a whiny, needy mess. It must be because he’s a boy, because whenever Josie and Mackenzie are sick, they don’t act like they’re incapable of doing anything. 

Well, Mackenzie does sometimes, but she’s only fourteen, so he’s not going to hold that against her. 

“Don’t laugh,” Ethan groans, wrapping the blanket around him tighter. He’s lying with his head in Harry’s lap, where he has been for the last half hour. He’s usually not so clingy, but lately, he has been, and Harry’s almost certain it’s because he’s going away for university in a few months. “Dad is lying to you. I totally have a fever.”

“You do not,” Louis calls from the kitchen. He’s sitting at the kitchen table with Mackenzie, because that’s the only way they can get her to do her homework. She’s not a bad student, it’s just. . . the effort on her part lacks a bit, and Harry and Louis aren’t letting her slack. “You just don’t want to go out for your run,” Louis adds, and judging by Ethan’s scandalized look, Louis’ right. 

“That’s not true,” Ethan huffs, sitting up. He pouts at Harry. “I went running this morning without complaining, didn’t I?”

No, he didn’t. He kept saying he didn’t want to do it, hoping that either Louis and Harry would give him an out. They didn’t, and he did go out and run, but he certainly didn’t do it without complaining. 

Harry reaches over to pat his knee. “E, you can skip a night. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Yeah, he only has to be in shape by August and his coach says he’s far from it,” Louis interrupts again, and Ethan sighs loudly. 

“He’s mean,” Ethan whispers, and even though Ethan’s just kidding, Harry feels the need to defend Louis. 

“You’re the one who decided you want to do footy at university,” Harry reminds, and Ethan lets out another long, dramatic sigh before standing and shaking the blanket off of him. 

“I’ll see if Jo wants to run with me,” Ethan says a few minutes later, when he’s tying his trainers. 

“I’ll go with you!” Mackenzie shouts from the kitchen, and Ethan rolls his eyes. Fondly, of course. But maybe not. Mackenzie antagonizes Ethan, and sometimes Ethan gets a bit ticked off by it, even though he knows it’s only because he’s her big brother. 

“You have homework,” Ethan says, loud enough for her to hear. He stands and gives Harry a look. “Jo will actually be able to keep up with me.”

Harry frowns at him. “Be nice, E. She’s your sister.”

“My  _ little _ sister,” Ethan corrects, grinning. So, he’s not actually irritated, he’s just being annoying for the fun of it, and Harry shakes his head at him. 

“Jo is your younger sister too.”

“ _ Jo _ is only a year younger than me and doesn’t tell me that my teammates are cute.” He makes a face and pretends to gag, and Harry sighs and waves him off. 

“Go running,” he says, shooing him away with his hand. “Be safe. And if you take your sister, make sure you watch after her.”

And even though Ethan is in a mood and seems to be enjoying pushing Harry’s buttons right now, he doesn’t make a joke out of that. All of their kids know how stern Harry and Louis, but especially Harry, are when it comes to their safety. Harry constantly worries about if the kids are safe or not, and he does his best not to be too suffocating and to hide his stress from the kids, but they all know how he is. Josie especially. She goes out of her way to let Harry and Louis know that she’s safe; he gets texts from her all day, every day, and they always help ease the fist around his heart. 

“We’ll both have our phones on, promise,” Ethan says, nodding. “And Jo will look after me, because we all know that’s how that works.”

Josie is, without bias, their most responsible child. She’s a straight A student, in student Congress, does sports all year long. She takes care of everyone -- Harry, Louis, her siblings -- as much as she can, even when Louis and Harry tell her she doesn’t have to. It’s just the way she is, and the way she always has been. They adopted her when she was ten, so about seven years ago now. 

Ethan likes to stick to his lane. He puts in as much effort into school that’s needed to get good grades, but he doesn’t stress over it too much. He blows off school sometimes (with permission, of course) and the only reason he joined the football team in the first place is because he saw it on TV and thought it looked fun. He’d be popular at school if it wasn’t for how much he didn’t care, and he is perfectly content with the handful of close friends that he has. He’s not really shy anymore, but he's still very introverted. And he also, to be blunt, just doesn’t give a fuck about a lot of things. 

Mackenzie is their wild card. She could take after either of them, or she could go a completely different direction. She’s fourteen, and they’ve had her for five years. She’s smart, but she doesn’t apply herself in school very much. She has a lot of friends, but she also likes to chat shit about a lot of them, even though Harry has told her countless times not to do that. She’s a very nice kid, she is, she just thinks there’s some type of way high school kids have to act, no matter how many times her parents tell her differently. Mackenzie is their art kid, although she doesn’t seem to think that her paintings are anything special. Harry and Louis think they’re amazing, and that she’s got a real talent, and are also kind of surprised she has the patience for it. 

Mackenzie is also the child that they worry the most about. Since Ethan was their first after Izzy, he got the worst of the helicopter parenting. They tried so, so hard not to be like that, tried to be cautious instead of paranoid, but it was hard, sometimes. He knows better than to do something that’ll freak them out. Josie knows, too. Like he said, she checks in with them every few hours, and she promises that she looks out for herself and her brother as much as she can. Mackenzie, though. . . Mackenzie might be a different story. She’s sympathetic to what happened to Izzy, and she hasn’t done anything to scare them just yet, but she’s definitely going to be their most rebellious child, and now that she’s in high school, Harry constantly feels like he’s holding his breath. 

Each school year, Harry and Louis still remind them not to leave school with anyone they don’t know. That they shouldn’t talk to strangers, and that they, Josie and Mackenzie especially, need to be careful of people taking advantage of them. Just last year, Harry got a call from a nervous Josie that she thought someone was following her and a friend around as they walked from the mall to a restaurant across the street. Harry never felt so powerless as he drove from home to the restaurant to get them and keep them safe. 

Their safety is the most important thing to Harry and Louis. And as the kids grow older and older, keeping them tucked away in the safety of their home is becoming harder and harder. Ethan is leaving home for university in three and a half months, for a university almost five hours away. Harry and Louis tried to persuade Ethan to stay closer to home, but when they realized Durham was Ethan’s best chance, they backed off. Had to, because they aren’t going to let their fears hinder Ethan’s life. And Josie is just a step behind him, and she wants to go to Oxford University, which is much closer than Ethan’s school, but still so far away. 

The hardest part is knowing that them getting hurt in some way is inevitable. They’re young adults, and young adults make stupid decisions, regardless of anything they’ve been taught. They’ll likely not get taken from them as brutally as Izzy was, but they can still get hurt. And all Louis and Harry have to hold onto is the hope that they’ve raised them well enough to make smart decisions and come to them for help if they ever need it. 

-

When Ethan graduates, it opens every wound Harry has worked so hard on healing. 

The entire morning, Harry doesn’t feel like himself. He’s constantly in his head, thinking _ shit, she’d be so much older than him. _ She’d be twenty-three. She’d most likely be moved out of the house already, probably done with university by then. She’d be working a real job, and Harry and Louis would get to see how all their hard work paid off. And it’s disorienting, because Izzy would have been right where Ethan is if it wasn’t for some stranger. 

He does his best to hide it, because this is Ethan’s day. Ethan doesn’t deserve to stand in the shadow of Izzy. But it’s hard. It’s fucking painful. And it hits him especially hard as he watches Louis fix up Ethan’s tie, and he has to slip out of Ethan’s bedroom to head to the kitchen. As he goes, he hears Louis quietly tell Ethan to let him be, and to not worry about him. 

Josie is standing in the kitchen, and Harry hates the way he wishes she was somewhere else. He wants to be alone right now, and he thought doing some dishes or something would help clear his head. But he doesn’t say that, just smiles at her and squeezes her arm as he moves past her to grab a water from the fridge. 

“Hi, Dad,” she says softly, and he gives her another smile. 

“We’re leaving in an hour,” he tells her, moving to the dishwasher so he can start putting the dishes away. When he opens it, he finds it empty, and Josie gives him a shrug. “Thanks,” he mumbles, shutting it. “Is your sister ready?”

“Yeah. She’s just looking for her shoes now.”

“Alright. Well, I’m gonna -- “

“How are you?” she interrupts, and she’s frowning, and shit, Harry knew he wasn’t doing a good job at hiding his pain, but he thought it was good enough to keep Josie off his case. She’s too sweet, and too smart, and he really just wants to go find one of Izzy’s pillows and hold it tight and cry and cry and cry. 

They moved out of the house Izzy grew up in just before they adopted Josie. There was no room for her there, unless they wanted to give her Izzy’s old room or make her share a room with Ethan, and neither of those options felt right. So they found a new home, one with five bedrooms and felt bigger than any of them could ever possibly need, sent Ethan away from a weekend, and went through Izzy’s room. 

It was the most painful thing they’ve ever had to do, and Harry hates to think about it almost as much as he hates thinking about how her entire life is packed away in boxes in the basement. Recreating her room at the new house felt morbid, and he still thinks it would be, but moments like this, he wishes he had a place to go to that it was Izzy’s and Izzy’s only. 

“I’m all right, Jo. Will you go see if Kenzie needs any help?”

Josie gives him a steady look. “She doesn’t. I checked on her, like, ten minutes ago.” She sighs, shifting on her feet. “How are you really? Because Dad said that I should leave you be for a bit, and he only says that when you’re sad.”

“I’m not -- “ he cuts himself off, because that’s a stupid thing to say. He is sad. There’s no denying that. “I’m okay, love. I’m sad, of course I’m sad, but I’m also really proud of your brother and want this day to be about him and him only. Today isn’t about her.”

“Every day is about her,” she says, and something in Harry’s heart breaks. 

“We’ve tried very hard not to let you kids feel that way,” Harry tells her, folding his arms over his chest. “I -- if any of you feel that way, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to be like that. You three have to know that we love you just as much as we loved her.”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” Josie says. “We get it, Dad. I mean, me and Ethan do, at least. Kenzie doesn’t seem to care too much about it, but me and Ethan won’t ever hold it against you. And we’ve never felt, like, less than her. I’m just saying that it’s okay that you think about her so much.” She shrugs, giving him a gentle smile. “I think about her all the time, and I never even knew her.”

Tears flood his eyes at that, and he tries to turn his head in time, but Josie catches it. She always catches it. She walks towards him and wraps her arms around him, hugging him tight, and Harry’s far too fragile right now to turn her away with a lie that’s he okay. 

“You and Dad should go to Massachusetts for a bit, just the two of you,” she whispers into his shoulder, her fingers rubbing small circles on his back. She’s too sweet, she really is. “I know we usually wait until August to go, but maybe you and him can go by yourselves now.”

Harry’s throat burns, and he has to put too much effort into not sounding completely wrecked as he talks. “We’d never just leave you guys, you know that.” 

“We can stay with your mum, or something. We’ll be fine.”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t think so, Jo.”

She doesn’t push it, probably knowing that Harry would never agree to leaving the three of them in a different country for anything. No matter how raw his skin feels right now, he could never do that to them. And their stay at the beach house in Massachusetts has become a family tradition; it wouldn’t feel right, going without them. Not anymore. 

A half hour later, he’s standing outside with Ethan between him and Louis. Josie’s been trying to take pictures of the three of them for about five minutes now, but Ethan and Louis keep taking turns on pulling stupid faces last minute, and the one time they promised they wouldn’t, Harry blinked right as the picture was taken. 

“Alright, it’s hot out here,” Harry says, turning to squint at Louis. “Please, just let her take the picture. Ethan’s going to have pit stains through his shirt by the time we get there.”

Louis doesn’t argue with that, and they manage to get two decent pictures of the three of them before Ethan gets bored and jabs his fingers into Louis’ ticklish spot on his side. 

“I give up,” Josie says, sighing. She comes over to Harry and shows him the few good pictures they have, and she’s about to try and sneak off to avoid being pulled into Louis and Ethan’s shenanigans, but Harry gives her a pleading look and she stays, sighing again. 

“Ethan,” she says sternly. “Dad wants the three of us to take a picture, so will you please stop being annoying and let him do it?”

By some miracle -- and by miracle, Harry knows iEthan’s just complying to make his father happy; they all know how much Harry cherishes pictures of them -- Ethan, Josie, and Mackenzie allow Louis to take a few pictures of them. Harry watches the three of them through the phone’s camera. Ethan’s in-between his sisters, standing tall and happy, and also pinching Josie’s side just to test her. She doesn’t let it show, although as soon as Louis tells them they can be done, she reaches forward and messes up his tie. 

“Hey,” Ethan whines, staring down at it. “Now Dad’s going to have to do it for me again.”

Josie shrugs and guides Mackenzie back inside, and Louis follows them after asking Harry to take care of Ethan’s tie. 

“If you would just stop pestering Josie,” Harry mumbles, fingers working over Ethan’s tie, “or learn how to do your own tie. . .”

Ethan just grins at him, and after Harry finishes his tie, he pinches Ethan’s cheek to annoy him. Ethan swats at his hand. 

As they walk inside, Ethan says, “I guess I do have to learn how to tie my own tie now. Can’t expect you to drive five hours to come do it every time I have a game.” His voice is quiet, and judging by the way he’s giving his weak, thin smile, Harry can tell he’s either nervous, or apologizing to Harry for leaving.

Harry shrugs. “I’d do it. You know I would.”

“Yeah,” Ethan agrees, ducking his head to hide a small smile as Harry reaches behind him to shut the door. Only Tucker’s here to greet him still, but Louis’ been subtly slipping in clues that he wants a new dog, so that’s probably not going to be for much longer. 

As Harry bends down to scratch Tucker’s head, Ethan clears his throat behind him. “I’ll be okay, you know. At Durham. I’ll be fine.”

Harry nods once. “Yeah, I know. And if you ever need anything, you’ll call me in a heartbeat.”

“Yeah, I will. Promise.”

Harry presses a kiss to Tucker’s head that the cat pulls away from and stands back up to turn to Ethan. He looks guilty, and Harry hates it. “I’ll be fine too, you know. So will your dad. So will Jo and Kenzie. You’re allowed to go out and do something good for yourself.”

“But you’re sad,” Ethan says quietly. 

Harry frowns. “And you’ve been talking to your sister too much.” He motions for Ethan to come closer, and Ethan does, easily wrapping his arms around Harry’s middle and setting his head against his shoulder. He grew to be tall, but not as tall as Harry. “I’m way more proud of you than I am sad, okay? Don’t worry about anything today. You’re. . . you’re the first kid I get to do this with, and I want you to have a good day.”

“I am having a good day. I just want you to have a good day, too.”

“I’m having the best day,” Harry tells him, squeezing Ethan’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you. So proud of you. You didn’t have the easiest life, and you still got here anyway. Seeing all your hard work pay off is really special to me, alright?”

Ethan nods against his shoulder. “I couldn’t have done it without you, though. I’d still be in second grade, probably.”

“Oh, shut it,” Harry says, laughing. He pushes Ethan back enough so that he can see his face, and Ethan’s smiling at him. “I was so worried about you, love. You were so insecure and scared and shy. . .  _ Shy, _ god. Now you don’t ever shut up.”

Ethan laughs, shoving at Harry. 

“Seriously, though,” Harry continues. “I am proud of you. You were the very best thing me and your dad could’ve asked for after everything that happened. You were the best decision we ever made.”

“Does that mean I’m your favorite?” Ethan asks. 

Harry rolls his eyes. “My favorite son, sure.”

“Alright,” a voice says, and Ethan and Harry turn to see Louis there, smiling at them gently. “You two done? ‘Cause we have to go.”

Ethan makes a face and sighs. “I better not fucking trip.”

-

_ “Ethan Tomlinson.” _

Louis, Harry and the girls immediately start cheering, clapping loudly and grinning from ear to ear. Ethan stands and walks across the stage, and Harry wishes they had a better spot, but he knows Ethan is smiling. Ethan’s proud of himself, almost as much as Louis and Harry are proud of him. 

Ethan ended up changing his last name when he was thirteen. He’s the one who brought it up, and Louis and Harry obviously had no objections. Ethan Thomas Tomlinson sounded a bit odd though, and Ethan originally planned on keeping Hill as a second middle name, and then the night before, he decided he wanted Quincy on his birth certificate instead. 

“You sure?” Louis asked, sounding uncertain. 

Ethan nodded. “Yeah. Ethan Thomas Quincy Tomlinson.”

His name doesn’t exactly have a ring to it, but it’s okay, because it was Ethan’s choice and because the meaning behind it means more than how it sounds ever could. 

Louis grabs Harry’s hand tightly, and he raises it to press a kiss to his covered wrist. It’s what they do whenever they know they’re both thinking of her. Doing it keeps her alive, in their own little way. And it’s not taking the focus off Ethan, it’s not, it’s just. . . including her where she deserves to be included. She’d be proud of her little brother right now. 

“You’re next,” Harry says, turning to Josie, who’s tearing up a bit. She laughs quietly and shakes her head. She’s nervous about going to university, for some reason. Harry and Louis aren’t worried about her at all; she’ll do fine, just like Ethan will, and just like Mackenzie will. They’ve raised them well. They’ve done a good job. And a lot of that feels owed to Izzy. 

She taught him how to be a dad. She taught him what it’s like to love nothing more than his children. And losing her taught him what it feels like for the ground to be ripped from under him, and more importantly, how to survive that feeling. Izzy lives in them forever because of everything she taught them, and that strength has been passed down to their other children, which will be passed on to theirs, and so on and so forth. 

She’ll never be erased. She’s infinite.    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it :))


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